Dancing on our Graves
by CCarbonmonoxide
Summary: In order to choose life, a girl is forced to leave everything behind. A year later she is living on the streets, among a group of punks in an abandoned building they ironically call Silas University. Or A story about a homeless Carmilla who survives in unfavorable conditions until she meets a girl and finds a reason why she wants to continue doing so (Carmilla Web Series Fanfic)
1. Chapter 1

About six years since I posted my last fanfiction on that site. It means a lot for me, to post again. To have another story to add to one I wrote when I was, so, so young. Also, it is comforting to see that regardless of some rather considerable changes, there are still some similarities that remain between the first fanfiction I ever wrote and this one. As soon as this one is finished, I think I will try to pick up where my 16 year old self dropped off.

All in all, here is a new story. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The camera would be making a close shot of a body part - so close you could barely make out what it was. Dynamic shots - changing every 3 seconds or so. Ankle with a thick wool sock, a close up of the black of a tattoo, a loose strand of a brown curl against the pale skin of a neck. Then the music would pick up. It would be a classic punk song. One that most individuals would be able to sing the chorus. For now imagine the one you like or know. If it was my choice, I think I'd play some Subhumans or maybe a classic of Bikini Kill. The camera would start backing up until you could make up the outline of my green canvas backpack and its 101 stains, patches and holes. It would zoom in on the dirty pavement and the cars racing past me. Then it would focus back on my skateboard with its duct tape holding it together.

Of course that movie would be one of redemption. On my quest and an undying determination to be well. To be good. To fit the 9 to 5 box, to get in that uniform and to say those "good morning" and "how are you". The typical good girl gone bad gone good. I'd meet a beautiful boy along the way that would show me, through unrelenting love, the error of my ways. I'd be the quirky white girl of his dreams. At one point in the movie, I would cry about how my father abandoned me (I'd have a Radiohead song playing in the background). I'd go back to school. I would make you feel more comfortable. Fuck it.

This is not a movie, and my quest is one of survival. My story isn't one of fingers crossed. Hoping that life will send things my way just because life owes us good things, a good life. Anyways. I guess it would be a good intro to a movie, but what would I know? I don't actually have the means to keep myself updated on movies. I could tell you all about myself, but then you'd lose interest. They all do in the end, really. You'd start trying to guess the ending of this movie. The cliché summary of my life. You'd want me to tell you all about my suffering. You'd want to pity me to care about where I'm going. I'm not going to give it to you that easy because you deserve more than that. I guess maybe I do too, deserve to not be a result of bad choices. But you know what? I'll tell you where I'm going.

I'm going to Rico's Pizza Place because it's 11:00 am and they open at 12:00 pm. The owner lets me go in their bathrooms in the morning to clean myself. I know I'm lucky, how often do you see a homeless punx able to get in a restaurant downtown without getting kicked right out? Actually it's a funny story if you have a thing for irony. It was a Monday morning. I had managed to get enough change for a slice of pizza over the course of the weekend. Rico's is known for their cheap discounts on Mondays. The owner is a good guy, you know, the type of boss who uses his free time to help his employees. There he was, taking orders from the clients. It was when he took the order from the woman in front of me I noticed something was wrong. He used his left arm to scribble down her orders and talked to the woman in monosyllables. He didn't smile at her when she finished giving him her order. By the time he was ready to serve me, I knew someone had to call an ambulance and quickly.

"Look I know it's hard to believe, but I'm sober and I know what I'm doing - I want you to do three things for me. If you can I'll just leave and you won't ever see me again. Can you lift both of your arms in front of you?" I ask him. I can feel the stares of the waiting customers burning holes in my already wrecked clothes.

He looks at me and I can see fear and confusion painted in bold colors on his face. He only manages to get his left arm up. I ask him to smile, but he only manages to lift only one side of his lips.

"Can you say: the big black cat went up the stairs?"

What comes out of his mouth is a sentence that even combined does not make a word.

"I want you to sit down and stay calm. We're going to take care of you." I look back at one of the waitresses that is looking at me, appalled, "I want you to call 911 and get an ambulance here. Possible TIA or stroke."

I can only imagine her confusion. She's the type of girl who wears a pink coat and never ever looks at the street kid playing pop songs on a beat up ukulele for money. Everyone is looking at me like I'm the one causing the symptoms in this man. As if any second I'm going to pull out a knife and ask for all the money. Whatever. They are the ones walking around like ticking time bombs - not knowing the basic and simple signs of a stroke. I wait with him until the ambulance arrives and talk to him about the squirrel I befriended in the park. The last thing I want if for him to worry even more. He is a good man. It's silly, but it's precious when you live surrounded by apathy. You can tell a lot about a person when they don't think anyone's looking. But I always am. I give a report to the EMT. The EMT recognizes me. He usually works the night shift and I've been in this position before. Usually, I'm taking care of another punk or homeless that has overdosed. He puts an oxygen mask on him and gets him in the ambulance. I'm about to leave when a hand grips my wrist. The owner looks at me - I think his eyes are thanking me. I almost smile at him.

"They will take care of you," I state.

So here it is. You'd think it would have made the newspapers: Homeless Saves Owner of Pizza Place. But thankfully, it didn't. A few weeks later I passed in front of Rico's Pizza Place and there was a big neon poster. On it read: _looking for the woman with army pants that called the ambulance for me on Monday (the 7_ _th_ _), if you see this please come in_. So I did, he thanked me. Since he had gotten admitted fast, and had no history of medical problems, he was eligible for thrombolytics. This medication dissolved the clot in his brain to nothing. He didn't understand how I knew what I did. He asked me what he could do for me in return. Hence, our arrangement. Luck you see. If I had asked for money it would already be gone. What's 50 or 100 bucks in this life? Every day before 12:00 pm, he keeps the back door unlocked and I can go clean myself in the bathroom. Sometimes he has a coffee for me. Sometimes I nod in his general direction. Precious things indeed.

And for the skateboard, trust me it's not to look cool or to get girls. I guess it's not that type of story either. Everything I wear and own is because of how useful it is. I can put my skate with my beat up yoga mat between my back and my backpack, so I never get it stolen. Sometimes I use my skate as a pillow. It would be impossible for me to own a bike although some do have some. I rather be able to carry all that I own in my backpack.

So back to my day. After cleaning myself at Rico's, I go to the metro station sit in the hallway that allows me to play guitar for money. I got this guitar from the garbage of a music shop that went bankrupt. I even found good strings. It's smaller, obviously made for a child. It was a weird shade of pink, but I painted it black using a leftover from a can of paint I found on a construction site. When I was young I convinced my mother to pay me some guitar classes. She only let me go to a few, but I've always had an ear for music. In that hallway between two stations, I play a little of everything I know. I hope for enough money to buy what I need. I take off my leather jacket that a friend of mine, LaFontaine, gave to me. It's hot in here and I'm much more comfortable in this tank top I made out of an old band shirt. You'd be surprised how many t-shirts you can find abandoned after a concert. Also, I guess it's somewhat less intimidating that then the leather jacket, full of patches and studs and whatnot. After this, I go dumpster diving - trying to salvage some food to bring back home. Whatever that is for the night. If I find nothing, then I still have half a bag of peanuts I found yesterday. As good a meal as any.

I met LaFontaine on the street about a year ago. I guess I met them at the right time. It had been three months of aimless wandering and barely surviving. Yet I was paralyzed at a crossroad. I discovered a rundown building on the edges of the city near a patch of woods. Back then, I was only starting to learn the ropes. The sky had been black and the streets had been silent for a long while when they came "home". It is at that unfortunate moment I realized this was where LaFontaine and their friends squatted. When you have no choice but to sleep in public areas, you become used to being woken at various hours. But it is when I heard the voices and the heavy boots falling on a creaking rotten floor that I came to understand how vulnerable I was. How vulnerable a girl can be. I can't paint to you, a picture myself as a hard, sarcastic and witty character that night. It was pure luck, that it was this group that found me. That I was able to keep them from beating me up or worse. It was a simple exchange of services. They had gotten jumped by some drunk jocks from a local university on their way back. Some of them pretty beat up. I had kept some medical supplies. In my backpack was enough thread to stitch up those who needed it. I knew what I had to do. When I do I get this look in my eyes. They knew better than to try to stop me.

LaF had been on the streets since sixteen. Along the years, they had gathered this group of punks. Became family, I guess. Anything can become family when you have nothing. We instantly had this mutual understanding. They remind me of the characters from cartoons I used to watch as a child. They have this ability to make so much out of so little. God knows why and how. They gave me their leather jacket in exchange for stitching everyone up. They allowed me to stay the night. I did. Also did the one after that. Next thing you know I'm part of the pack of weirdos living in "Silas University", as they ironically call it. I don't ask why they're on the streets so they don't ask me either. To be homeless and survive you have to be resourceful. So I am.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Fucking hell cinnamon face, could you jam this needle further in my nervous system?" I scream out.

"Common Carmilla, this isn't your first time." they laugh.

I roll my eyes. I wouldn't let anyone else do this. But LaFontaine is undeniably talented. I think they used to work in a tattoo shop before. One of the guys managed to "find" a pot of ink. So today most of them took a break from scavenging to freshen up their stick and poke tattoos. It's amazing what they can do with just a pencil, a needle, thread, and ink. I clench my teeth and let them finish the moth design behind my neck. They've been sketching this for weeks.

When it's done I turn my back against the big broken mirror we found and hold a shard of broken mirror so I can see the result. I would never admit it out loud, but they are the best I've seen at this. In times like these, I almost wish things had turned out differently for them. Oh well. That's life I guess. I put on my black sweater, hoping the cold weather will stay out of the holes. The cold winds getting restless, announcing the return of winter. It's worst of seasons when you're out on the streets. This run down building cannot keep out rain, let alone snow and cold.

I'm in charge of keeping the instruments as aseptic as possible. I rinse the instruments with alcohol and then pass them through a flame. Perry is sitting next to them, arranging the equipment for the 100th time. This girl has the undeniable talent to make anything look clean and orderly. Even a rundown abandoned house on the edges of the city. Not including me there are two girls in this group. Perry, although LaFontaine would never admit it, is their girl. They always share their findings of the day with her. More often than not they share their beat up mattress in the "living room". The other girl in the group is Bonnie. I guess she is attractive, with her pink hair and blue eyes. The only thing "wrong" with her is that she uses. Basically will take anything she gets her hands on. So, not an option for me when I want someone to warm my yoga mat.

The sun is setting and I grab my bag and leave, thanking LaFontaine on my way out. Often I can make a decent amount of change on Friday nights, with all those people coming and going from bars.

* * *

I'm finishing a cover, it's around 1 am, and that's when I see them. Two girls, leather jackets and pants, one of them wearing a blue Mohawk, looking high out of their minds. Their hands are all over each other as they laugh and move without balance. I've seen them around. It's hard not to notice a punk lesbian couple. One of them suddenly collapses. The other girl tries to get her to wake up, calling her name. She then realizes she's not waking up she screams for help. From where I'm sitting I can see the security guard trying hard to ignore them. 10/10 for effort. He probably thinks she's tripping or something.

I get up and run towards the couple.

"What happened?" I ask her.

"I don't know like we were walking and she just like ... fell." Her voice breaks and she starts crying. My chest tightens slightly, but I keep focus. I move the unconscious girl so she's lying on her side.

"What did she take?" I ask firmly.

"There was a bunch of pills. Maybe Oxy or I don't even know."

"What's her name?"

"Tam ... please help. I don't know what to do." Her voice is shaking, her eyes wild and lost. I need to give her something to do.

"Okay, I want you to see that security guard. Tell him he needs to call an ambulance. Stay with him until he does." I demand with a strong voice.

I check the girl's pupils. Pinpoints. She definitely used some sort of opioid. I rub my knuckles on the girl's sternum trying to get a reaction. The girl's hand twitches and she moans weakly. From afar I can see the security guard talking using his walkie-talkie. I hope he is making the right call. I continue trying to get the girl to respond for what seems like an eternity. Again, I wonder why this always happens while I'm around.

I feel someone kneel down beside me. She takes the girl's pulse.

"Gosh, what happened here?" She asks, not looking at me.

"Well, nothing extraordinary, buttercup. She collapsed while walking. Possible opioid overdose. Respiratory depression and a decreased level of consciousness that has persisted for that past five minutes." It comes out of me automatically, in a knee-jerk fashion.

It is at that moment she looks at me. I guess I hadn't looked at her either. Her eyes lock with mine, as if surprised we speak the same language. Although serious, she has a face that looks like it never learned how to frown or cry. Her light brown hair is in a messy bun and she is wearing plain clothes. There is a pack of cookies sticking out of her bag. She looks tired. She takes in my leather jacket, my messy curls, the dark makeup and the holes in my leather pants. I don't know if she is judging or just assessing the situation. My eyes are on her, unflinching. Well, until we hear the beautiful sound of a girl vomiting. Oh, modern romance.

"Well, it was definitely a good idea to put her on her side." She mumbled bitterly. "I don't understand why she keeps doing this to herself."

"You know her?"

"We'll I've gotten to know her. I'm a nurse at the General, sometimes I have to take shifts in the emergency unit. I'm in the oncology unit. But I guess you have an idea how it is, the hospital is like Swiss cheese because there are holes everywhere and so we all end up doing extra shifts in pretty much every unit. And, let me tell you – not always the nice units. But still I guess that's all right for me there's always action in my day and it pretty much cured my insomnia because the by the time I'm in bed I'm just too crapped out to do anything but sleep and..." She blushes once she realizes she has just given me her work schedule in less than 10 seconds.

"Sorry, I guess the rambling is a side-effect of the seven and a half cookies I ate in one bus ride." She adds.

I just look at her. Her natural cheerfulness feels like lemonade in summer. Refreshing, but somewhat awkward for this winter cold.

"You can go now, don't worry about her. I'll take care of her" she continues.

I shake my head, "I would rather wait until the EMT arrive."

She looks at me again, there is a clear softening in her features. "Are you – are you two a couple?"

I shake my head again.

"I told her girlfriend I would take care of her" I muttered.

Other than saying the unconscious girl's name a few times when her respiration seemed to decrease, we sit in silence. I can feel her eyes on me a few times. I guess I just don't know what to do about that, even though I'm used to it. The EMT arrives and the nurse gives them a report. When they leave the place is so quiet it is almost surreal.

She gets up and I realize how short she is.

She bites her lower lip slightly, "This is the worst part of town. You probably see things like that often."

I look at her with a blank face, "So this isn't Disney Land? I'm stunned."

She looks at her feet and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looks like she's debating something. Probably wants to ask me if I'm the one who sells her drugs.

I roll my eyes, "I'm not the one who sells her drugs." I turn to leave. For some unknown reason, I still feel the need to defend myself after all this time.

Her voice stops me, "No, well, actually I was wondering if I could buy you coffee or hot chocolate or something, for helping out that girl. I mean few people would take up their time like this for a stranger and I think it's quite -"

I'm shocked. Maybe you wouldn't be, but I really am. This differs from someone just throwing change your way. Coffee means contact. It means sitting down. It means talking. The girl is beautiful. This is a truth that cannot be denied. But street rats are in the streets for a reason. Besides, I need to get back to Silas before the crazy drunks get thrown out of the bars.

I cut her off. "Thanks, but no thanks cupcake. I need to get going."

She looks at me like she expected that answer. Her eyes on me again, I can feel her struggling to see what would be the best thing to say. Her hand searches for something in her purse. Here, it is – she will give me pity money. I rather have nothing than pity money. In my case, it's quite literal. That's why I play guitar instead of just holding a cup. It makes me feel like I'm somewhat working for the money I'm getting.

"All right, then take this -" I can't help but raise one eyebrow. She gives me a tube of cream. This better not be lube or some type of medication for vaginal infections. On the label, I can read it's an antimicrobial ointment. I am both relieved and surprised.

"For your tattoo." She adds and smiles. I don't know why this is worth so much more than a coffee or money.

I awkwardly take it from her hand. She grabs her bag and turns to leave. I do the same, walking in the opposite direction.

This need arises from my gut and I do not understand my need to look at her one last time. The moment I have my eyes on the back of her head she turns her head so that our eyes meet. It is only when I am facing forward again that the air momentarily trapped in my lungs is freed again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

In the day, I sometimes I sit in the park in front of the hospital. Certain days I feel like a ghost haunting its own home – never quite able to understand it is no longer needed. I like seeing the never ending flow of people coming in and people leaving. Usually, it's easy to tell which nurse or doctor just finished a double shift. They look at the sky, seeming surprised to see it still there. You see them take air into their lungs in the same manner arms cradle a child. There is something soothing in the routine, in seeing the hospital stand like it was something mechanic or even alive. Often nurses will pass in the park, by my bench, to go to the nearest entry to the metro, eyes glazed and tired. Sometimes smiles lingering on lips or the shadow of a frown. Often left over medical equipment falls from their pockets without them ever stepping outside their thoughts. I am lucky on those days, the gauze and alcohol swabs are always useful. Sometimes I find notes from the nurse's shifts. Those are kept as well and read them as though they are something religious or holy. I try to imagine what happened in the time they worked and what could happen with the group of people they cared for. When the notes are memorized, I burn them to respect the privacy of those who are sick.

I strum on my guitar, a soft melody that could be any song. I see a man sitting on the bench opposite from mine. His fists are clenched, his lip quivering. This happens often. Sometimes family members get news or live situations in which they cannot cope. The first reflex is often to flee. To get fresh air to calm hearts beating a little too fast. They usually get that break here, in this park. Even the trees look heavy with the accumulated unsaid words, worries, desperation, and sadness. Sometimes strangers look at me, and I can see what I seem to them; a skinny punk and a vagrant. A girl who looks too unapproachable to be pitied. Sometimes I can see they see me as a failure. But often they do not see me. I think it's that invisibility that makes it that so many of those fled family members gravitate to me. Or maybe I'm simply there at the right time.

The man looks at me. To most, he would be a source of fear. This man could appear angry. But I know that look in his eyes. Maybe as much as I understand the routine of a hospital. He is devastated, and doesn't know how to cope with what he is living now. I hold his gaze, giving him a slight smile. His gaze turns to his lap, where he is playing with his hands nervously.

I trust my gut, "Hello sir."

"Hello," he stutters.

We sit in silence for a while until he says, "I don't know how I'm supposed to do what I'm required to do."

I wait awhile before answering, "What do you feel is required of you?"

It is then he cries. I almost feel bad for not having tissues, but then I remember that comfort can be found in falling tears. It is sometimes soothing to feel them on our skin.

His voice is weak and breaks, "I will have to watch my wife die."

I get up to sit next to him and put my hand on his shoulder for a few seconds. His shoulders tremble with the sobs and people walking in the park are trying harder to ignore him than me.

"The doctor came in and told us that the cancer had spread. The chemo will not cure her anymore. Told her right in the middle of her breakfast. It was the first time since she started her treatment she had asked to eat, you know? The chemo kept making her nauseous. And then he tells her that. Kicks the appetite right out of the field. He could have at least let her finish her breakfast. I don't even understand what we will do next. And I have to be strong for her but I just don't know how to anymore."

There is a moment of pure silence. The wind has died down and the snow is coming down gently.

"Sometimes the only strength that is required is the strength needed to be present."

He wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat and stands. He turns to face me and puts out a hand for me to shake.

"When you see your wife, ask for the nurse. They're able to make sense of things. She'll make sure you're both not alone." I say softly.

As I watched him leave, I was hit by an image of my mother with an intensity I had not felt for quite a while. I saw myself as a child in her clinic on the day we had to follow our parents to work to learn what they did. Regardless of youth, I understood that my mother's hard serious face and complicated words were saying something that hurt the person on the other side of her desk. I saw myself asking my mother why she had made the lady sad.

"If you act a certain way, Carmilla, you get certain consequences. The woman made herself sick." She replied coldly.

I frown at this memory, nausea creeping on me as well. I now understand that with the complexity that being human entails, it is never that simple.

My first stop the way back is the mall downtown. I go there to fill up my canteens in the water fountain that's near the entrance. This mall is near the organic grocery store (from the dumpster diving I get: a few vegetables, 2 bruised but otherwise good apples, tofu dogs a day after the expiration date, a loaf of bread, and soy milk). I also go the various donation bins that are on my way back to Silas. Sometimes if I'm lucky the bins are overfilled and bags of donations are left on the ground. Today I am lucky. It is a garbage bag too big to fit in my backpack, so I carry it in my hands, hoping that contents will be worth freezing my hands.

On days like this I am happy to come "home". Before entering, I look around making sure no one that could report us to the police is present. The doors and windows of Silas are boarded up. The only way in is a hole in the back of the house. We keep it hidden behind pieces of wood and junk. This keeps out strangers or animals. Lafontaine evaluated that we were safer in the basement – the first and second floors have, supposedly, "structural damages". Which is why we freeze the sum of our anatomy in the basement. When I arrive in the basement I see only Perry and Lafontaine. They are sitting on their mattress, currently adorned with the tackiest blankets you probably have ever seen. Perry is continuing her knitting project while Laf is looking at her with a mixture of longing and amazement. They literally know all about surviving on the streets; where to get food, where to get dressed, the places where you can wash. But they, for some reason that will forever stay unknown to humankind, cannot knit.

"I don't understand why you don't know how to do it, Lafontaine. I must have showed you 15 times."

"How am I supposed to learn when your fingers are moving at a speed too rapid for the eyesight of the common human?" They roll their eyes.

"If you want to say you're impressed you can just do so." She smiles.

"What I'm really impressed by is –"

I cut them off by coughing, notifying them of my presence. Making my way to my yoga mat under the stairs, I fumble with the edge of the bag somewhat excitedly. I can't wait to open this bag. A closed bag, filled like this one, is like a present. Speculating on what could be inside this bag kept me warm the whole way back home as the wind found its way to my skin. I can feel their eyes on me.

In the bag I find; one blanket with a Disney princess on it, an extra-large knitted gray jumper (clearly looks like someone's first project), a pair of thick socks and a few t-shirts that won't fit me. I keep the blanket, the socks, the jumper and two black t-shirts to patch up damaged clothing and throw the rest of the back to Perry. I am more excited to see what she will make with these clothes than I am for the contents of the bag. Of course, I don't let this show.

She squeals, "Thank you Carmilla, that's just so kind!"

I shrug my shoulders and share a look with Laf. It just happened gradually – this understanding about Perry. We both know how important she is. We both know we would drown if it wasn't for her sun-like intensity, her normalization of everything and her denial of everything that goes wrong. She goes through the bag and separates them into piles. She finally takes the red shirt and cuts it into strips to make was she calls "the poor woman's wool." Then, she sews the ends of the strips of cloth to one another. It makes a long strip that she rolls into a ball. Much like yarn. She told us this was the technique her grandmother used to make carpets. Say's they have done this for generations because no material is wasted. I guess she's strikingly clever too, in her own way. She even uses our old clothes (after washing them, of course). She made me a scarf out of all my broken black clothes. It's thick and lumpy but mostly warm. I am thankful for that scarf and the warmth it brings me when I walk outside. She even made Lafontaine a scarf out of their old clothes – a scarf made of t-shirts with animal prints. Hideous and ridiculous, just like Laf likes their clothes.

I go to our makeshift freezers, a wooden box filled with snow, placed in the coldest corner of the basement. Our names are carved into the wood. This which allows for no confusion with the "freezers" of the other members of the group. I guess out of all the unexpected things that have happened, I could never have predicted becoming part of a group. I never was one for big groups, partnerships or team sports. Don't think I even liked people for the majority of my life. When we get large amounts of food like I just did, we share it. Except the soy milk. That I keep for myself. I was hesitant to share at first. Feared that I might lose more than I got and would end up hungry. The fear of hunger is one of the few things that remains, constantly. But this system works. We are able to eat everything before anything rots, and sometimes between the three of us we have enough to make a somewhat balanced meal.

A month and a half after I left home, the hunger followed me everywhere. It invades your thoughts until thinking about anything else is painful. One morning as I was getting ready for my day, I realized I could fit my fist between my skin and pants. A pair of jeans that were once skin tight now had to be held against my hips with an abandoned shoe lace. I had spent all the money I had left on food. It didn't last more than two months. I discovered dumpster diving by luck. Before all of this, it was something I had never heard of. Trust me when I say it is a concept that Mother would have beaten out of my mind. One night I was walking aimlessly, trying to stay awake. I had learned the hard way it's better to sleep in the day. It is safer. I saw this group of 3-4 hippy looking people and followed them at a distance.

From a distance I heard, "I found about five bags of Doritos. It's maybe not vegan but still. That's like…"

By then I was dreaming about food. So I followed them.

* * *

I'm sitting against the wall of a tall building, on a busy street. My cap is upside down on the ground and I'm strumming my guitar. I think I have gathered a little less than 5 dollars. I'll have enough to wash all my clothes at the laundromat and buy a candle to light up the dark basement of Silas. Once my guitar is back in my bag and the change is pocketed, I start making my way to the nearest laundromat. My breath trailing behind me like smoke. It is then that I hear someone following me. When I turn around, I see no one.

I let out a breath when I see the neon lights of my destination. Although no one else is there, I know there's a camera in the top corner of the room. No one would do anything in such an obvious place. I look through the windows. Again, I see no one.

I am sitting, snacking on the tofu dogs I found before when I hear a knocking at the door. A frown breaks out on my normally stoic face. A big black cat is on its hind legs, using its paws to knock on the window of the laundromat. At first, I am certain the tofu dogs must be rotten and I'm just tripping on the side effects. As soon as I open the door the cat quickly enters. So here I am, at midnight, doing laundry and having intense eye contact with a black cat. I am glad no one was there to see my confused face. Once I realized I have let a stray cat into a public space, which could give the cops an easy reason to throw me out of here or worse, I try to scare it off. This cat is not scared by my noise or the hand motions I am making to towards it. It sits on the chair I was sitting on before like it owns it. I shrug and sit. Of course, I realized then that this cat was doing exactly what I was doing. Which is trying to survive the best way it could. I sit on the chair next to it and cut off a piece of my tofu dog. The cat eats it with appetite. I share with her most of the food I had brought with me.

I made my way back to Silas. The black cat following in total silence. I swore at the black animal multiple times. Yet it still followed me. I entered quickly Silas to make sure it didn't follow. The guilt boiled up in me. It slowly disappears when I realize that this cat can definitely find a better home than mine.

My tedious routine remains the same. I spend every day balancing which needs will be tended to. I sleep during the day, play songs in the streets in the evening, and dumpster dive by night. Yet a difference in the routine cannot be ignored. A tiny persistence is constantly at my heels. For the past week, it has slept near the entrance of Silas. Every evening it gets out from its hiding place and follows me. It waits outside of Rico's when I go to wash. It sniffs the pile of food I build next to the dumpsters. It climbs on my shoulder when I play guitar. I have never gotten this much money from playing since I started. I pay the cat back for her help by buying her a can of cat food. It creeps up on me until one day I realize it's impossible for me to ignore my fondness for this little creature. It's hard for me to accept. Animals die and run away. They are another mouth to feed.

Yet, I look out the window of Rico's to make sure it's still waiting for me. I share with it the food I find. I pat its head when it's on my shoulder. After a few weeks, I realize that I cannot keep this cat out. Since I've started to live with them, no member of the group has had a pet. So I decide to ask them if they could let her live in Silas with us. Perry was ecstatic. Lafontaine was uncertain. The group generally feared a flea infestation. They agreed as long as I make sure it has no fleas.

Which explains why I am outside with Perry and the cat. She is releasing the enthusiasm of the strength of ten thousand suns while the animal is looking at me like it's cursing my ancestors. We are combing its fur looking for fleas.

"I never took you for the cat lover, Carmilla." Perry flashes me the biggest of smiles.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are! Look at how delicate you are with it. You really adore her. Lafontaine and I have a blanket with a huge cat on it – oh my – we should definitely give it to you! Since you love cats so much. Wouldn't you like it Carmilla? You could put it on your mattress instead of that dreadful princess you desecrated with a Sharpie. Also, I'm sure Lafontaine has a cat t-shirt, I'm sure they –"

I cut her off with, "No."

"You don't have to be shy Carmilla, I'm sure they wouldn't mind giving it to you once we explain to them how much you love cats."

I throw a dirty look her way, "No."

"It's okay, I understand. You want to look tough. I won't ask them for the cat t-shirt in front of the others."

I roll my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep a smile from breaking out.

We continue combing the cat. Thankfully she is free of fleas. I am thankful for this because earlier in the evening Laf crafted this anti-flea potion. I am certain it could get rid of the fleas, but it would probably be strong enough to take the pigment out of its fur.

Perry snaps me out of my thoughts, "You should give it a name, since we are certain to keep it now."

In my mind, I go back to a time that feels like another lifetime.

"I think I'd like Mircalla."

We make our way to the basement. Perry has Mircalla in her arms. The black cat is resting in such a docile fashion, you could never guess it had spent a day in the streets. We slowly make our way downstairs. I see Lafontaine sitting on their bed, their arms on their abdomen. Pain makes its presence known on their face.

"What happened?" I sit down to get at their level.

"I've had this weird pain for a while – but it just seems to have gotten really worse."

I make them lie down, "show me where it hurts?"

They point to the right side of her abdomen. I try to keep my face blank. The skin is intact and free of scars.

"You're going to hate me for this," I say before I palpate the painful spot. Like I predicted, they scream out in pain and hit my arm.

I look at Perry, "I need to get them to the hospital."

I see her eyes widen and she quickly brings a hand to her mouth. She's vocalized her fear of hospitals many times. We help Laf up the stairs. As we are getting out of Silas, I see Bonnie coming towards us, pushing an overflowing grocery cart. The grocery cart is filled with pink objects; a desk missing a leg, blankets, a plastic chair made for children. Her eyes are unfocused and her pupils are dilated. Great, just what I need right now.

Bonnie flashes an innocent smile at us before pointing to her cart, "Guys! Come and see what I found! Items to decorate the Candy Kingdom! It's going to be so pre-"

"That's really great Princess but right now Lafontaine and I need your cart. We need it to get to Hogwarts to destroy the ring of power in the Tardis." I use all the nerd language I can muster and hope it will be able to convince her.

She looks at us with wide eyes and starts unpacking the cart. I waste no time and help her. Once empty I get Laf to climb in it.

"It will be faster and less painful," I tell them.

I turn towards Perry, "I will come back to give you news. They will be okay."

Bonnie's confused eyes are shifting between Laf, Perry and me. She quickly puts one of the pink blankets on Laf and pats their head. So I start running towards the hospital I trust the most.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The bright neon lights are making even the tattoos on my arm look clinical. I look at the clock for what seems like the thousandth time. It's officially been two hours since they took Lafontaine into the OR. This is a bit too long for a simple appendectomy. Which leaves me expecting the worst. Images of the possible complications are on repeat in my mind. They were too warm to the touch and they took them in too quickly.

It's a simple procedure. They do it all the time.

I say it over and over again. Yet, I feel the air moving quickly in and out my lungs. There is nothing to distract me right now. I fidget with the edge of a patch on my pants. Twenty minutes later, the doctor comes out. His lack of gray hair and nonchalant attitude gets an involuntary glare from my part. He informs me that the surgery went well, but that there were some complications.

I don't waste any time, "Did you go laparoscopically?"

He nods, "and by the time we visualized the appendix, it had already ruptured and-"

"Were there any abscesses present? Signs of peritonitis?"

"The infection was limited to the appendix. We cleaned the peritoneum and left in a drain –"

I sigh of relief. I could kiss this dumb cocky man child. Things go much quicker after. Once Laf is awake, an orderly takes us to the surgical unit. In the first hours the nurse in charge of them comes in and out quite often, taking their vital signs, measuring the liquid coming out of their drain. I quickly try to get a feel of this floor. We are quite close to the nursing station. I learn that the nurse manager of this unit is called Danny Lawrence. She appears to be present on the floor and well-liked by the nursing staff but forgot to get a nurse to replace one that just went on a two-week vacation. This means either over time for the regular nurses or inexperienced nurses from other units. This could be a very good or horrible thing for Lafontaine. I learn that this week the night nurses are harsh old ones that they should avoid at all cost. Laf is still a little silly from all the medication they got. They keep trying to play with their Jackson-Pratt drain. I keep slapping their hand away. So far, they have done this about 10 times. Usually, I would be bothered. I guess the situation is making me more tolerant.

The nurse comes in another time, taking their vital signs, looking at their wound dressings and leaves.

They stare at the nursing leaving, "What a ray of sunshine."

I shrug, "It could be worse. Surgical nurses aren't the type to hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings in your ear for you to fall asleep. But they are the ones you want to take care of you post-op if your organs start fucking up on you." I see them trying to find the small drain again.

"What is that? What is this juice?" They say quietly, looking perplexed.

I roll my eyes. "Hey Doritos, that thing is mine and if you touch it, I swear to the gods I will rip your IV out and watch you bleed to death."

They look at me and stop moving. They eventually fall asleep. I make sure they are breathing adequately. I then write a small note for when they wake up (Dear Hydromorphone, I've gone back to Silas to give an update. Don't talk to the nurses during the night shift unless you are a second away from death).

* * *

The cold air stings my cheeks as I make my way to the hospital. The streets are quiet at this time. I am thankful the roads are dry enough for me to skate. It's keeping me warm. We try our best to avoid prolonged periods in this temperature. Once the cold settles in you, it's very hard to get rid of. Especially when you live in a basement of an abandoned house. My slightly oversized green army coat is making it slightly harder for me to move my body to the rhythm of my skate. The mismatched buttons are barely holding it closed (pink, orange and blue, courtesy of Perry). I bring Perry's DIY scarf higher to cover my nose. I bring my approximately 300-year-old beanie lower, an attempt to cover my ears. They are already aching. I still have about fifteen minutes of travel left. The sun is slowly making its way down. I am already anticipating the agonizing way back, in that freezing darkness. I will have about three hours with Laf before the visiting hours are over.

A shiver runs through me, with such a strength that I cringe. Three layers of clothing aren't enough to keep the wind out. I quickly take the black cat away from my shoulder and put her in my coat, holding her against me. I wish this idiotic creature would listen to me, instead of stubbornly, blindly, following me. I will need to make a shelter for it if it's to stay three hours in the cold. It starts purring. I roll my eyes.

I can definitely say that I've never been this happy to see a hospital. I make my way to the back of the hospital, near the dumpsters. I am hoping to find some cardboard boxes to make a shelter for the cat. Once I am satisfied with the arrangement, I take off my sweater and use it to cover the bottom of the "shelter". I take out a tin of cat food and open it in the box. This is our usual arrangement. I know that she will stay there until I come back.

I make eye contact with her one last time before heading in. I sigh out of relief once the warm air of the hospital hits me. I am receiving a couple of stares regardless of the fact that I am currently wearing the most casual clothes I own. Could be worse. I am barely out of the elevators and I can hear two nurses arguing near the entrance to the abdominal surgery unit that Lafontaine is in.

"There is no way in hell or Hogwarts that I'm going to fill in until Betty comes back – she's going to be gone for three months and –"

"Why the hell not Laura?" a very, very tall redhead exclaims.

"Danny Lawrence, you know very well why. It's actually the first thing I tell anyone I meet - I am not a surgical nurse. I hate surgery and aim to be as far from surgical wounds as possible-"

The giant cuts her off with a sarcastic laugh, "so what, you'd rather be as close to neoplasms as humanly possible? It doesn't even make sense. To the point, it would make more sense for you to say you like working in ortho surgery with that dude douche Kirsch. Your unit is quite literally, the most depressing place in all the hospital. Even the morgue has a better vibe. It's too depressing for you Laura, you're going to get sick from all those depressing cases."

I can only see the back of the smaller nurse's head, and it seems the giant said exactly the right thing to turn her into a tiny ball of rage.

"So now it's your job to assess what is too depressing for me –"

She cuts her off again, "Well clearly it is!"

There's a moment of awkward silence.

"We are friends, we are roommates, but don't ever mistake yourself to be anything other than that. I didn't leave the house of one controlling parent to the home of another. I know what I can and can't handle."

"Laura-"

I quickly walk in the unit, soundlessly passing the arguing nurses.

"No. I'll fill in for the rest of the week. Only because I need the hours," I hear the smaller one say.

By the time I reach Laf's room my face is neutral again. When I walk in they are piling juice containers on their table. I make a sound in their general direction to inform them of my arrival. They quickly turn around. I make my way to the semi-comfortable chair next to their bed.

"Carmilla! You have no idea how happy I am to see your cheerful face."

I pretend to gag.

"Probably the first and only time someone will ever say this to you; you literally have the warmest facial expression I've seen all day." They look at me, eyes big and focused, and a smile hidden in her tone.

"I bet." I take off my bag, and start undoing its various straps. Shivers are still passing through me. I'm trying to hold them in. I realize I'm not as subtle as I would like when Laf throws me one of the thick blankets from their bed. I wait for their inevitable question.

"So… How is Perry?" they ask, voice filled with barely hidden worry.

"She is fine. Fine enough to hit me multiple times with random objects – Carmilla Karnstein you will give me every detail I don't care if you think I'm too simple to understand I will have every last piece of information or I will bleach all of your clothes to a pale beige." I imitate in an exaggerated fashion Perry's voice, overly high-pitched and shrill, my arms feigning twitchy motions.

They laugh at my imitation, "but she is okay right?"

"Yeah now she is. I, on the other hand, now have auditory problems more commonly seen in the geriatric population." I take my book out of my bag.

"Good. Kind of jealous. I keep hearing things I really, truly don't need to hear today." They look suspiciously at the entrance of their room before continuing, "Do you know what a fecaloma is?"

I snort, a bit louder than I expected.

They continue, "So, the day nurse gave the man in the room next to mine a type of juice to prep him for a sort of exam. And then, a few hours later she goes in the room and comes out quickly asking for help because apparently she found a fecaloma. So, obviously, I got worried. Like what sort of viral disease could that be? I asked the nurse when she took my vital signs if I had any chance to catch a fecaloma-"

"Did she give you the long or short answer?"

"Well, let's just say that I walked around a lot today and drank about five liters of water."

I hide my smile behind my book.

They continue, "Seriously Carmilla, this place is like heaven. They have showers, and when we tell them we want to go, they give us free soap and towels! And, also they have this like sort of kitchen, where there's hot water, and tea bags left over from a patient who refused them. If you go after meals they leave some half eaten trays and sometimes they still have fully wrapped snacks or desserts. They have those cookies you dip in tea? You know the ones that are individually wrapped? That Perry absolutely loves? I've been keeping them for her. So far, I have ten of them. Also, my neighbor has been too nauseous to eat anything so I had double portions today. I've never been so full in my life. I've also been keeping the juice cups for Silas. I figured here I could drink the water and if we got really dehydrated or something we could drink the juice. It's full of sugar. To top it all off, my vitals are good and I'm not even feeling much pain – and JP is doing okay too."

I look up at them, frowning, "JP? Who is that? Did you take anything for pain today?"

"No JP, my Jackson-Pratt. The drain."

"Oh." I bring the book back to its original position.

I like the sounds of a hospital. The voices of the nurses at the station, the machines beeping and the sound of shoes on the floor. It's soothing. The sounds mixed with the heat is making it hard for me to focus on the words. But I know that I must. If I fall asleep I fear it will be hard to leave when the visiting hours are over. How can the warmth compare to the bitter cold that's going to follow me back to Silas?

"Do you want a tea? Or some Jell-O I still have left over from supper?"

"I'll have the tea."

They explain to me how to reach the small kitchen where they have hot water. On the counter, there is an abandoned cookie, still in its wrapper. I quickly open it and eat it as I make my way back with a warm cup between my hands. If I didn't have so much self-control, I'd smile so big that it would probably break my face in half. When I enter Laf's room again, a nurse is bending down, putting a cuff their arm to take their blood pressure. She is wearing a floral uniform top that is so intense that I recognize her from the argument with the nurse manager. She is definitely, truly, not a surgical nurse. She lifts her head up to look at me, wisps of hair fallen from her messy bun on her face. My palms get sweaty, and I feel my heart hitting against my chest. I recognize her immediately. It's the same nurse that offered me coffee the night I found a girl who had ODed in the metro. I don't understand this rush of adrenaline. I keep repeating in my head, she doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it's not important.

I put my tea on Laf's table. The nurse is looking at me, with her soft eyes. Her questioning stare confirms that she remembers me, but she is trying to remember something. I try to avoid looking at her, I look at the machine that's taking their vital signs.

"Well, 118/63, that's an excellent blood pressure. Heart rate is at 68 per minute, that's very good. Your oxygen saturation is 99% and that's also great." The small nurse says, rather rapidly and with a smile.

She continues, "Combined with a temperature of 36.7, and a very clean dressing, I'd say you're doing very well Lafontaine."

She slowly makes her way to where I am standing, offers me her hand to shake, "Hello, my name is Laura Hollis, I'm going to be Lafontaine's nurse for the next few days. You must be…"

Both the small nurse and Lafontaine are looking at me. I hesitated before shaking her hand, "Carmilla."

The smiles she gives me is so bright it almost gives me a sunburn, "I know who you are! You're the vampire" she excitedly exclaims.

The face I make then is the universal face for "what the fuck".

I am thankful that Lafontaine speaks up because I am at a loss of words. I've been called a lot of things, but a vampire? Not even in my young prepubescent emo days.

"I can assure you, Laura, despite the pale skin and dark clothes, that she is human. She is my sister, the one I talked to you earlier about." I can tell by the tone of their voice that they are as equally confused as I am. I am surprised that the lie comes so effortlessly out of their mouth.

The girl shakes her head, laughing a little, "Wow that is so me, I'm sorry you both must be so lost. It's just that you have a good reputation here Carmilla. One of the EMTs that work the night shift was impressed by your constant, well, good timing. You know, the name came up because you are often there when there's a trauma or someone is near death. Like in a good way I swear, you have a good reputation, like a modern hero of some sort. It's just he didn't know your name and the nickname stuck. And, since it often happens and patients sometimes talk about you, the nurses in the emergency unit have started to look forward to getting the people you've seen first."

I am mortified. I try very hard not to let it show. "I am not a hero of any sort, cupcake."

She smiles at me, so sweetly, it's like she didn't hear my response.

"I'm just saying that if there's anything I can do, let me know. Okay, so I'll see you guys in a bit!"

She quickly makes her way to the other side of the curtain, where Lafontaine's neighbor is sleeping. I make my way back to the chair, and my blanket. I'm trying very hard to understand what just happened. Turns out that this little human is more intense than my random physical fits.

I am halfway through a page in my book when, "So…"

I look at Lafontaine, an eyebrow raised, "Shut up you warm glass of orange juice. I don't want to hear about this ever again."

"Sure thing Dracula."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The streetlights have all burned out and it is becoming hard to see. I am making my way through the shadows, walking fast. I can taste the blood in my mouth. I know I am being followed and if I turn around to see they will catch me. I feel a hand on my shoulder –

The sound of metal clashing on metal wakes me up. My confused eyes search the now dark room before stopping on Laf's nurse. She bites her lip slightly before mouthing an "I'm sorry" before making her way with her machine to take Laf's vitals. I can feel myself slowly drifting back to sleep when a sudden realization hits me. I look at the clock and see that visiting hours have been over for 30 minutes.

I quickly get up and start packing my things back in my bag, "I'm sorry, I fell asleep and didn't realize the visiting hours were over and –"

The tiny oncology nurse shrugs, "Honestly, I don't mind if you stay. It's not like your causing any trouble and it's very unsafe to drive when you're tired. I mean, the last thing you would want is to leave here only to come back an hour later in a stretcher. My shift ends at midnight – if you want you can stay still then. If we were in the oncology unit it wouldn't even be an issue, but here they are extra strict on visiting hours. So you should probably leave before the night nurses start their shift."

I try not to think about her kind eyes and the softness in her tone, "I would not want to create trouble for you."

She smiles and shakes her head, "if they want to punish me for something so silly, I can handle it. Maybe I'll fight them with my awesome communication skills and get a badass reputation like yours."

I roll my eyes and feel a slight heat rise to my cheeks. Sarcasm makes its familiar way into my tone, "I have a feeling that badass is a word often used to describe you."

She takes no offense and puts her hands on her hips, "You'd be surprised. I can be very badass."

What a dork. I bring my hand to my face quickly to hide a smile. I don't think she noticed.

"Okay, so I'm going to continue my rounds. But still, my shift ends at midnight, feel free to stay until then." And with that quickly said sentence she is out the door.

It's hard to find something soft and kind here. The roads are broken, the buildings cold, people's faces as apathetic as mine probably appears to be. That's probably why this small human stands out. Like a dandelion in the pavement – precious and rare in these conditions. While if anywhere else, would appear irrelevant and common. Naive and provincial. I am ashamed of myself. I wonder if taking the cat in has made me weaker.

While I was lost in thought, I had missed a heated conversation happening near Laf's room. I make my way closer to the door but remain out of sight.

"Laura, common, let me at least give you a ride back to the apartment after your shift." I recognize this voice of the tall skyscraper of a person who had argued with her earlier. Her attempt at whispering is a complete failure.

"Drop it. I'd rather walk home."

"You know you need to pass through a few shady streets to get back, what if someone –"

"Just go. I don't want your help. If anything happens I'll call the police or The Avengers or something."

"Laura wait –"

"No, I need to finish my rounds if I don't want to leave at two am."

I'm glad to admit this in the privacy of my own head, in a room with only sleeping people: the tall mess is right. The streets around this hospital are filled with, let's say, not the most collaborative individuals of this city. I sigh and make my way back to my chair. I bring a blanket to my chin. It's none of my business anyways. The tiny dork will be fine. The tiny, kind, dork will probably make her way rapidly to where she lives. Whatever.

* * *

Whatever. I am embarrassed, although glad no human being is here to see it. The cat is sitting patiently on my shoulder as I reach out to pat its soft head. I'm just paying back a debt. The nurse let me sleep in the warmth of the hospital. I owe it to her. So that is why I am leaning against a wall, with a clear view of the exit for employees, at 12:10 am. I hide my hands in my pockets to warm them up. Five minutes later I see a familiar messy bun getting out, a crimson scarf wrapped around her neck, thick and comfortable. I keep a reasonable distance and follow her. I would probably collapse and melt into the dirty streets if she saw me. I can't shake off the feeling that I'm probably looking like a predator right now. Oh well, for the greater good, I assume.

She looks down the streets three times before crossing them. Her steps are rapid but steady regardless of the thin layer of snow that now covers the streets. The street lights seem to bring out the golden tones in her hair, which is obviously irrelevant, but makes it easier for me to follow. My combat boots are so worn down they leave traces in the snow soundlessly. This is a skill I have thoroughly practiced. Often it is best to remain unheard and unseen. We make our way down a few streets. The snow has kept people away from the streets, and for that I am thankful. Eventually, we get to a nicer part of the city. She stops at a tall building about a thirty-minute walking distance from Silas. I turn around when she makes her way into the building and make my way back. A debt paid, and a mind calmed.

It starts to snow, softly on my way back. With this type of snow the weather seems to warm up. I try not to think of how hard it's going to be for Laf to return to Silas after living and sleeping in the warmth of the hospital. Where they have meals, showers and tea. And nurses who talk to them respectfully. I had always thought of hospital gowns as dehumanizing. But I think it might be the opposite – maybe it gives every individual the chance to get the best care they can. To be judged on the things we can help. I try not to think about the oncology nurse with her rapid, annoying, high-pitched voice and warm eyes. About the way the stray pieces of hair followed the wind. About the tone of her skin and how good it looked with the warm color of her scarf. Of course, I try not to.

By the time I arrive at Silas I'm holding the black cat against my chest and I feel my cheeks burning. The stairs down to the basement ache in protest as I make my way down. Bonnie is sitting on her bed with a very confused expression on her face. I follow her stare until it lands on Perry. She is moving around quickly, picking up objects and organizing them. I look at my bed and raise an eyebrow. The blankets are perfectly arranged, not a fold can be found. All my stuff is arranged, side by side as if arranged using a ruler. As soon as she notices me she drops the cup and t-shirt she was holding.

"Where in the heck have you been?" Her voice is shaking and its intensity is probably causing electrical storms on the other side of the globe.

"Shopping for a new summer dress." I make my way to my yoga mat, covering my fully clothed self with all the blankets I have. The cat makes its way to Perry's legs and rubs its head in a naive fashion against her.

It is when I close my eyes for a fraction of a second that I feel the impact of a soft object against my face.

"What?"

Her voice gets significantly higher, "You know what Carmilla!"

My eyes remain closed. "They are okay. Getting progressively better. They should be out in a couple of days. Their nurse let me stay after the visiting hours because of the weather."

I can hear her sigh in relief.

"You should visit them. The hospital is warm."

"You know that I can't do that Carmilla."

The cat gets under the blankets and purrs as it balls up next against my side.

"I know" I state simply.

"Well, now that everything is okay I guess I'll just… sleep."

Sleep creeps up on me. When I finally wake up the next day I am alone, except for the black creature sleeping soundlessly on Perry and Lafontaine's bed. I look at the watch on my wrist. I still have the time to get to Rico's Pizza Place if I leave soon. I take off my coat. After sleeping with it a whole night, my skin is boiling and it feels so good it's almost painful. I take off my pants, put them in the pocket of my big military backpack that I use as a dirty laundry bag. I put on a pair of gray long johns before putting on black pants, which only have holes on the knees (which is very impressive considering the state of my wardrobe). Once I'm at Rico's, I decide to even wash my hair and use that conditioner sample Perry gave me a while back. There is this weird, unfamiliar feeling in my gut – an eagerness. This strange desire to live through this day.

Once my hair is dry enough, I make my way to the metro. I play some songs for a few hours and manage to make a little less than ten dollars. Much more than I usually make at that time and for that amount of time. When the sun sets I make my way to the various dumpsters behind grocery stores and bakeries (a small bag of bread, two pineapples, a couple of bags of grapes, a box of day old donuts and half a dozen banana muffins). I go to the public library downtown to bring back the books that I have finished and pick up a few new ones. I'm about to leave when I notice Perry sitting alone at a table, hands held together and staring off into space. We rarely see each other during the day, and so I am surprised to her there. I contemplate joining her. I see her eyebrows bunch up together for a slight second and before I realize it, I am making my way towards her.

"Can I sit?"

When she looks at me, a smile is formed as quickly as a light is switched on, "Oh hello. Where is Mircalla? What are you doing here?"

"I've come to get my fix of eighteenth-century French Libertine novels. And it is waiting for me outside."

For a second she looks at me confused before shaking her head, "Well that is great. Look what I found today, you are going to be so thrilled," she searches through her bag before pulling out the ugliest, tiniest piece of clothing, "it's for Mircalla!"

She holds it up. It is a knitted cat or small dog sweater. With a Christmas type pattern on it. A mess of Reindeer and green and red. I can only imagine the fight the little black creature will put up to be spared of the agony that wearing this tacky piece of clothing would entail.

I try to give her a sincere smile, I probably look like I'm in pain, "That is… absolutely gorgeous. I'm sure she will… be very comfortable in it." She hands it over to me and I hold it awkwardly. "Thank you."

We sit in silence.

"Are you okay Perry?" I ask, carefully.

"Mm, sure, of course I am." She answers, distracted.

I simply look at her.

"I'm okay Carmilla, don't worry about me." She passes a hair through her bright curls, "I just miss Lafontaine, I guess."

I nod, playing with the edge of the cat sweater.

"Did you know that Lafontaine and I met in this library?"

She doesn't wait for my answer, "They were seventeen and I was eighteen. I used to always come here to do my homework back when I was still in high school. When I graduated, I kept the habit of coming here. It's a calm place, you know, calm and clean. I noticed them because they were always at the same table, reading the biggest books. Literally textbooks. I don't even know how it happened exactly. One day we were sitting two tables apart, and a day later we sat together. They read those ancient textbooks and I read my romance novels. I'd give out my resumes and then make my way here to meet them. This library was my constant. When Grandma -" she clears her throat, "and when school ended and when I lost the apartment – I could always come here. And Lafontaine was always here a few hours before the library closed."

She sighs, "some things play out so, so wrong, but others," she looks up briefly at the ceiling, "you wonder how you could have survived if it hadn't played out so well. If you hadn't been so lucky."

I quickly reach for her hand and give it a slight squeeze before bringing my hands to my lap.

"They are doing okay, by every medical definition."

"They have to be okay. This is our deal," a small smile appears slowly on her lips, "that is The Deal."

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out quickly.

"So," I raise an eyebrow and grin, "you want to help me put this beautiful piece of clothing on the cat?"

She practically squeals.

When we finally end up putting the sweater on the cat, it doesn't move a whisker. As if it understands that sitting there, in a hideous Christmas sweater, is the right thing to do. For our sakes, anyways.

It has only been a few days, but it seems that meeting Laf at the hospital as grown into my routine. Yesterday the small oncology nurse told us that they were most likely going to get discharged today. I park the grocery cart behind the hospital. Silas is quite a walk from the hospital and I don't think they can walk that distance in the cold. Perry made sure to lend Laf's favorite blankets for the occasion and they line the bottom of the cart. I put a few cardboard boxes, an attempt to hide both the small cat and the cart itself. Perry has been in the happiest of moods since I announced the probability of Lafontaine's discharge yesterday. She even managed to find a few bouquets of flowers from her dumpster diving sessions. Now the basement of Silas looks like the scene of a post-apocalyptic wedding. They even found a birthday cake. Now Isabelle's 17th birthday cake will welcome Laf home. I don't know why this whole situation makes me feel a kind of non-specific sadness. Like we are celebrating a situation that shouldn't be. That is so far from ideal. A lifestyle that is hard and cold. But Perry is happy. And Lafontaine is in good health.

When I arrive at their room, a finished meal is sitting on their table and they are putting their belongings into plastic bags.

"Are you escaping?" I ask.

They turn to me, "I got my discharge papers. I can go home as soon as you come to pick me up to," they make quotes in the air with their fingers, "drive me home."

"Lucky for you I'm a great driver." I go to sit on their bed, an attempt to rest my legs before leaving once again.

They look at the door before whispering, "Laura gave you a present."

I look at them, confused, a tingling feeling in my stomach.

They take out a paper bag and when I lean in to look into it, my mouth opens slightly in shock. The bag is filled with medical equipment; gauze, medical tape, alcohol wipes and even a throwable stethoscope that they leave in isolation rooms.

"She is the best, right?" they say, excitement in their voice. An excitement I feel myself, so deeply, but cannot process. Happiness, maybe?

"Right."

I don't think they've ever seen me this speechless. They look at the door again before sitting near the head of the hospital bed. They start taking out juice cups that were hidden there. Not just a few juice cups – more like thirty cups. I look at them with a raised eyebrow.

"What? It's not like I stole them. They were going to be thrown away," they say as they start taking out little packs of cookies from under their mattress. I can't help but laugh.

I help Lafontaine carry their bags, and we stop at the nursing station. The small – Laura – is sitting at the table, writing down in a patient file.

"Hey Laura, we are leaving."

She smiles before getting up and walking towards us, "Well I wish you the best of luck Lafontaine. I am a hundred and ten percent sure that this is a situation you thankfully will never live again."

They both laugh as I try to hide my shaky hands in my pockets. My face is neutral and I'm debating if I should say something.

Laf turns to leave and I extend my hand towards the nurse, "Thank you, for everything."

There's a mischievous glint in her eyes, and she grins, somewhat triumphantly, "it's nothing really, just doing my job. Continue doing the good things you do."

When we are in the elevator, her words bring me back to another time. I can see from the corner of my eye Laf looking at me. I am hoping they won't say anything. That we won't talk about the nurse. That we can go back to living a life in which my closest companion is the small black cat.

They snort, "uh, crushes on nurses?"

I roll my eyes, "fuck you."

They laugh.

We make our way to Silas. I think the cat is happy to have a warm place against Lafontaine for the ride back home. It must be a funny sight – a punx pushing a grocery cart with a small black cat and a red haired person like a stroller down the broken streets. Once we arrive at Silas, Laf gets out the cart so fast I'm almost afraid they are going to fall. We make our way down to the basement and I'm struggling to keep up with them. Perry's face seems to become her's again when she sees them. I'm afraid Laf's smile is so big that it will remain permanently stuck.

"Lafontaine! I-" and a second later they have their hands around her waist and their lips come together in a feverish, desperate fashion. Perry has her hands in their hair, messing it up until it looks more like their usual hair. I look away. Maybe this isn't so sad after all. I look at Bonnie, who is on her bed, eating a piece of birthday cake with her fingers. She whistles loudly at the scene.

"Oi ginger pornography, calm it down." I try to keep my tone serious. They ignore me and I'm happy they do.

There is a thought nagging, at the back of my head. I see the small golden haired nurse, and I am suddenly worried that she is going to make her way back home, alone. Like she has for the past nights. I know tonight is her last night on the surgical ward. It is her unsuspected kindness that makes me put on my leather coat under my oversized army coat and head back outside. I need to pay back that debt one last time. I need to make sure she makes it home safely.

I arrive at the hospital a few minutes before midnight. I see the tall red haired nurse quickly make her way to her car. She doesn't notice me as she passes a few meters away from me. I see her black car leave the parking lot. A few nurses leave the hospital before I find the one I was looking for. She walks in the same direction she has for the past nights. I follow her, keeping the same distance I have kept for the past nights.

I drink in the sight of her, trying to commit her image to long-term memory. For the simple reason that I want to recognize her if I ever can pay back what I truly owe her. Such kindness shouldn't go without being recognized and praised.

We are slowly making our way out of the rougher streets. I see her looking at both sides of the street before crossing it and I go to do the same. It is in that fraction of a second that I feel something hit my side and send me falling into a pile of garbage bags. I barely understand what has happened and I look around and see a bike on its side and a man looking at me shocked and lost.

I cannot help but to yell out in pain. I am hit not only but twice. Once by the bike, once by the smell of cheap alcohol reeking from that man.

I hear his deep voice say, "Oh fuck that shit, no way I'm going to prison for this," before he starts running away.

Fucking idiot. With my head against the cold, snow covered street, I wait for the rush of adrenaline to pass in order to assess my possible injuries. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel my side is sore, but my lungs and ribs seem to be okay. For once, the many layers of clothing have actually been useful. I then hear someone running towards me.

"Are you okay? I heard –" I recognize her voice and wish I could pretend to be dead. How am I going to explain this? Kill me now.

It is when I try to sit up that I feel a sharp, burning pain from my thigh so intensely I bite my lip, fearing that if I don't I might scream out and wake the whole neighborhood. I look at the small nurse.

She takes out a wooden ladle from her bag and holds it towards me, in an attempted threatening manner I assume, "why are you following me – what do you want?"

I can't help but to laugh slightly at the scene, "Where in hell did you get that?"

"Answer me Carmilla. Why are you –"

The sound of my name on her tongue gives me a rush. A temporary type of courage that I use to try to move my leg but the pain stops me. I clench my teeth and my nails dig into my palms. The nurse is still rambling angrily. I finally look at my thigh, and I can see the fabric of my pants and thermal underwear has been slashed open. I see a piece of metal sticking out from the garbage bag. Great. I rip the fabric slightly further to see the extent of the damage. An angry, bloodied, open wound looks back at me. It is when I see the texture of what appears to be adipose tissue that I realize I will definitely need stitches.

She gasps, "oh my god. We need to get you to the –" she takes out her phone.

"No, I can't go to the hospital."

"I'm sorry I didn't realize you were badly hurt I thought you - I mean you can imagine how this seems to me –"

"Do you happen to have a peace of fabric you can live without?"

She searches through her bag and gives me a roll of white medical bandage, "You can't stay like this, and you might bleed out or get infected. It won't close by itself, it's too deep."

I start wrapping the bandage around my leg tightly to bring the edges of the wound closer together, "it's okay creampuff. I'll manage. Go home. I'm sorry for going all Edward Cullens on you."

"Carmilla –"

"Go home."

She puts her hands on her hips, "I'm not leaving until you call a cab then."

I shake my head, "I don't have my wallet on me." She definitely doesn't need to know I haven't had a wallet in a very, very long while.

"Then let me pay for it."

"I'd rather bleed out in this shitty neighborhood, thank you very much."

"Let me at least call an ambulance –"

"No it's okay, let me die in piece." I try to get up, using my other leg and I feel her arm under my own, helping me up. A reflex probably.

She lets go of me once I'm standing, "Well then I'm taking you to my apartment. To, at least, clean the wound."

Again I laugh, "Wasn't I a dangerous stalker a minute ago? You are making terrible choices."

She just frowns at me.

"That bunched up little face you make when you're angry is hilarious, buttercup."

She glares at me, "I wonder how hilarious it'll be when you either bleed out or get an infection so severe that the wound is seeping rainbow colored pus."

I the pile of garbage I find a broken broom handle to help me walk, "Looking forward to that. Have a nice night." I start walking in the opposite direction.

I don't even have to look behind to know that she is following me.

I turn around, "Goodbye?"

She raises her chin defiantly, "If you can follow me, I can follow you home. It's only fair."

Is she real? I try to keep my face blank regardless of the inferno in my leg. I can taste the blood from the bite on my lip.

We make a few steps before she says, "Stop being stupid. I live five minutes from here. You can let me clean your wound and then we can both return to our lives."

I laugh humorlessly. The blood is already seeping through the bandage, even in the cold.

I sigh. The tiny nurse is right. If I don't want to go into sepsis I need to clean the wound as quickly as possible.

It is almost as if she can hear my thoughts, "Exactly. To the Shire we go."

She puts my arm around her shoulders to support me. If I start laughing, I won't be able to stop – this is the closest I've had to human contact in years. Oh, the irony.

We make our way through the same streets we have for the past few days. When the pain starts to get more unbearable I allow myself to breathe her in. She smells so lovely and clean, even after an eight-hour shift. I can't imagine her on days when she doesn't work. In its unfamiliarity, it is so soothing. Like a reminder. At the silly contents of my thoughts I realize the accident and the loss of blood are getting to me. I probably would have barely made it to Silas.

When we finally reach her apartment block I am relieved. We get into the elevator. I don't know if she looks determined or angry. Her eyes are fixated on the numbers announcing the floor level. I bite back a smile, she is, most definitely, badass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

I haven't seen a clean carpet in an apartment corridor – well, probably ever. I had expected to be somewhat uncomfortable being in a stranger's apartment, but never to this extent. It's easy to forget what an actual apartment looks like when you have spent about a year in the ruins of an abandoned building. The warm colors on the walls and the furniture feel almost eerie. Like walking into a dollhouse. If it wasn't for the random nerd objects I would assume this apartment belonged to a middle-aged woman. A single, middle-aged woman with a floral pattern fetish. Some of the decorations I recognize, the obvious ones. Others make me feel like I have I have been living in a parallel dimension. Also, the smell of the place hits me. Although quite a while ago, I can smell that food (very, very, good food) has been cooked in here. I didn't think I'd ever forget how a house smells after a home cooked meal. I guess sometimes you lose things so slowly and progressively that you don't even notice. It makes me wonder what other things I have forgotten. I wonder if it is better they remain forgotten.

She puts my arm around her shoulders once again before leading me to a small kitchen. I almost moan once I finally sit down. My hands grip the kitchen table tightly, waiting for my leg to adjust to this position. I try to distract myself. From where I'm sitting I can see the living room, a flat screen television and a huge collection of DVDs. I can see magnets with words on them on her refrigerator, the ones you can make stupid sentences with. Once my eyes are on the small nurse, I can see why she is probably a good oncological nurse. With the look she's giving me I almost feel like being in pain isn't something I mind so much. She stands next to me, her hands held up to her chest as if getting ready to do something in the most rapid manner she can manage.

"Okay so first things first, do you want me to get you Tylenol or Advil?"

I shake my head and start searching through my bag, "no it's okay. Could you please boil some water?"

"What? Really? I know tea is all kinds of good for the body but are you sure you –"

"Please," the word feels weird in my mouth, "Just boil some water. And if you have any sort of alcohol or hydrogen peroxide that would be great."

She awkwardly puts a pot of water to boil. She then almost runs out the kitchen to go in a room down the corridor. I find what I'm looking for. I put a Ziploc bag with some of my most precious belongings on the table. I get up and dump the contents in the water. When she comes back she drops a first aid kit bag.

It is actually very impressive, "Only a nurse could have a first aid kit this intense."

She rolls her eyes, "Shut it and take off your pants."

When I look at her horror is clearly etched upon my face. I barely am able to choke out a "What?"

"Common, it's not like I haven't seen this like a bajillion times." She scoffs. Her confident attitude breaks for a second, "Unless… you aren't wearing –"

I get up in one smooth motion, "Fucking hell," I start taking off my pants, "Whatever."

It's once I have put my folded pants on the backrest of the chair with both of my coats that I realize what underwear I'm wearing today. I am then thankful for the slight blood loss – I am able to keep my stoic expression intact without blood rushing to my cheeks.

"Well," she starts laughing, innocent and almost carefree, "I sure didn't take you for a boat type of girl."

I look down at my boxer briefs, covered in little boats. Clearly from the young boy section. Of course this is not coherent with my typical clothing but they usually come in little packs and end up being cheaper. Also, I've lost a considerable amount of weight. Sadly this is what fits the best. The last thing I want is to be annoyed by my own underwear or have to keep them up with a lace as well.

"Laugh all you want – we both know you're probably wearing peach-colored granny panties."

She snorts. I suddenly feel very lightheaded. I realize then that I haven't eaten since the piece of bread I ate for lunch. That mixed with the lack of sleep, hydration, and the adrenaline rush of this whole situation – I am very close to having a Vagal shock. I go to sit on the chair.

The small nurse doesn't miss a beat, "No Carmilla, sit on the floor. Put your legs up against the wall."

I don't really understand her command, but I feel her hands under my thighs. The warmth of her hands distracts me from the feeling of blood dripping down my thigh. When my feet are raised I start feel significantly better. The fogginess in my brain subsides and my ears stop ringing. She gets up and I wonder if she is going to call an ambulance. Instead, she comes back with a yellow pillow and puts it under my head.

"Thank you," I say rather quietly.

"No problem Captain," she chirps as she fakes a military salute, "I was raised to be a good man in a storm."

I look at her funny, because she is very much, not a man. My eyes drift slightly to her exposed legs.

"You don't watch – oh never mind."

I am infinitely thankful that she is not making this an overly serious, grave situation. The medical bandage on my thigh is so saturated with partly dried blood I am dreading the moment I will have to rip it off.

"Do you have a hard time seeing blood?"

I chuckle, "Trust me when I say that I don't."

"Are you sure? It would be totally normal, you know, it's a pretty big wound you have there –"

I hate the lie that comes out of my mouth, "I just ate supper really early. I assume that this is why I'm just a little – weak at the moment."

Her voice is low and soothing, "Just let me clean the wound," she mirrors my words, "Trust me when I say that I have had a lot of practice these past days."

I can't argue with her logic, "Alright."

She sets her equipment on the floor next to me and puts on clean medical gloves. She wets thoroughly the bandage with a sterile solution before taking it off. When I see it again, I try to pretend that it isn't my wound. That it isn't my leg. To prepare myself, to do what I will soon have to do.

I must have made a sound because she says, "It's not hardcore straight edge, die hard, or whatever you punk rock kids say, to suffer. Especially when you could take innocent pain medication that is very much available."

"Kid?" I scoff, "Please, I am probably 311 years older than you."

She drops another dirty gauze in the small garbage next to her, "Gosh, that's specific."

Does she ever not have a reply to something? I look at the clock above her sink once more. The wound is as free of blood as it can be in the given circumstances. I see her pick up the absorbent gauze and I cut her off.

"Could you please get the –"

Her face is twisted in confusion, "You want the tea now?" She gets up to the pot and when she looks into it, she doesn't even need to speak. I can feel her internal conflict from my weird position on her floor.

I hope she will just go with it and not question, "Just dump the hot water and bring it to me."

"What in the name of Ellis Grey is this?"

I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off, "Needle holders. And a sewing needle. What-"

"It's an Olsen-Hegar needle holder."

She looks at me, half way between horrified and overwhelmed.

I shrug, "Same difference, I guess."

"Who are you?"

I can't help but grin, "I am a creature of the night, we already established that."

She takes her hair down only to trap it in a messy bun again, "Where did you even get those? They are like, intense expensive."

I look away, wondering if I should tell her the truth, "Would you believe me if I told you it was a gift? That I've had them, for a very long time?"

"Actually, probably not."

A lie it is, "Well then, I stole them from a scrub nurse to get her in trouble."

She turns her head to hide a smile. When she finally looks at me, she has a pained expression. Like she is trying to ask a question, but the answer is too sad to want to understand.

"Carmilla –"

"Do you have a hard time seeing blood?"

"No, I don't but why," she points to my leg before bringing her hand to her lips, "why would you want to do this? Why can't you just go to the hospital? It's not like we are in the U.S. and it's going to cost you a life's worth of Lucky Charms to get it fixed."

"It's easier this way. I can't go to the hospital-"

"Why? You have no trouble going in for another person. Which means it's not like you're legally banned from the hospital."

I groan in frustration, "Cutie, have you ever thought of going into journalism?"

Her face lights up, "Oh my gosh, how did you guess? And yes I actually did during High school. I was part of the Newspaper committee and – "

"Splendid. So great to hear that, hope you continue progressing in that field." I get up excruciatingly slowly. Regardless of my efforts, the room is still spinning. I make my way to the sink and start to wash my hands. I have to distract her. "What made you go into nursing instead?"

I turn my head towards her and see her look up before answering, "I guess, well, I spent some time in the hospital and realized that nursing was like an elite form of journalism."

My eyebrow raise at her answer, impressed. I was wrong to expect the cliché answer.

"I think that also, I need to be constantly busy, you know, occupied. Being a nurse, I never really have to worry about getting bored. If I am bored, it's because I'm either not doing things right or need to switch units."

"So do it with your mouth open, and take your foot off of the brake, for Christ's sake." The words come out off tune and barely a whisper.

She just looked at me, the type of expression I assume she would give someone who was trying to tickle her in a place she definitely wasn't. "What? Which brake?"

I bite my lip, "It's to calculate the time I use to wash my hands. I sing Dilaudid by The Mountain Goats two times."

"The Mountain Goats?"

I shrug, "I was going through a bad break up when I learned that trick."

I gather the equipment needed and go back to my position on the floor, folding the pillow in half. With this position, the blood will be less likely pool to my extremities and give me a better chance at doing this right. A hiss comes out of me once I pour the hydrogen peroxide on the wound.

I have the needle holder in my hand, the needle is about to bite into the skin, "If you could have a super power which one would it be?"

"Look at you, taking an interest in journalism."

"Just answer the question. It's most obviously not for my personal wealth of knowledge, and more to try to distract myself so I don't lose consciousness."

I can almost hear her attitude as she comes and sits next to the pillow, her legs crossed, "I think I'd like immortality."

"The only thing –" I clench my teeth so tightly I fear I might end up with pieces of teeth in my stomach. The needle goes in and out my skin two times before I finish the first stitch. I let out a breath less shaky than I expected, "I think the only thing more painful and sad than the smallness and insignificance of a human life, is a never-ending existence. I think I would go insane."

She shakes her head as if offended, brows coming together to form a tight frown, "No come on, you have to think bigger than that. You get to see how everything turns out."

I manage to do another stitch. This one looks better than the first one. The edges of the wound are perfectly approximated. A sense of pride takes up the place in me that it had long abandoned. I shrug at her answer, "and live to see the end of humanity? To live to be the last human on earth?"

She hits my shoulder, in a gentle manner, "The end would be as important as all the discoveries and advancement and the awesomeness that happened! It's like saying we shouldn't study the Roman Empire – the fall of the Roman Empire is as important as its rise to power. Or else there wouldn't be so many books about it. Think about it Carmilla – you would have all the answers to all the questions ever asked."

It is probably not okay, that I haven't felt this normal in ages. I am currently sewing my own leg up, in the apartment of a stranger. In boat covered boxer briefs. I don't understand why it feels so normal. Maybe it's the conversation or normalcy in the setting or the small golden haired girl next to me wearing a dress with polka dots. I am half way done stitching the wound closed. It is bleeding significantly less. It's hard not to focus on the contrast of the blood against my pale skin. I'm trying hard to concentrate on the pain so that I don't faint. I am concentrating so hard I don't hear the heavy steps making their way into the kitchen.

From the floor looking up, the girl definitely looks like a sixteen story building. A sixteen story building with the angriest face and covered in bird patterned pajamas. It takes the strength of all my existence not to laugh at the sight.

"Uh… What kind of barbaric, alleyway surgery is this?" I wonder if she ever sounds calm. Like she is just a girl and not the leader of an army of ten thousand Vikings.

I guess the tiny almost-journalist is so used to the tone that she doesn't hear it, "Oh hi Danny! Did we wake you? This is my very good friend Carmilla. She is the one that has… walked me home the past nights."

She makes a sound in my general direction that I assume is a form of greeting. I think I'd rather have silence than a half-assed attempt such as this one. The small one, from the height of the common mortals, seems to have no trouble holding the extra tall one's gaze. I almost want to congratulate her on it.

My expression is back to stoic, "Well good evening to you too Gandalf."

Both pairs of eyes turn to me and it kind of feels as comfortable as the moment yogurt sits in your mouth before you swallow it.

I still have the tools in my hands when I put them up as an act of peace, "I was just going along with the tiny –" I feel like every atom surrounding me stands still for a moment, "Laura's nerdy Lord of the Ring reference from before."

Bird pajamas shakes her head, "Whatever. Laura… I thought we had agreed to not have visitors over after work on weekdays –"

"No, we actually never agreed on that. I know that because it is something, with one hundred percent of sureness, would have never agreed to. What we agreed was to advise the other when we have visitors over. I think that this situation can make an exception to the rule considering…" she points dramatically at my almost finished work with her small hands. The rush of adrenaline caused by the arrival of Xena the Warrior Princess is helping me finish my job.

She runs a hand through her red hair, clearly attempting to find something else to convince the small nurse to ditch me and spend quality "roommate" time with her. "First you say you don't like surgery but you come back to the apartment with a trauma case. What the hell? I don't know what has gotten into you."

"I prefer to be called Ms. Trauma Case, thank you very much."

"Oh shut it bloody Mary."

Well that one, is without the shadow of a doubt, a surgical nurse through and through. She doesn't even bat an eyelid at my open wound. But her comment doesn't stop the tiny human from standing up defiantly, hands on her hips. It almost looks comical, but the oh so jolly giant takes a step back. I wonder if Danny is ashamed that this cute girl in a dress is technically the one that wears the pants in the friendship. She looks like the type of girl that gets spiritually offended if someone even attempts to top her.

"Look, I'm sorry we woke you up but you have no business insulting my guest – my currently injured and bleeding the equivalent Niagra Falls guest." From my protected position behind her I smirk at Danny. I could never have imagined this scene, getting defended by an oncological nurse. Considerably shorter and more approachable looking.

The tall one glares at me like I not only stole her puppy, but intend to eat it, "We'll talk about this tomorrow, Laura."

"Mm well tomorrow I'm really busy, but I'll try to make time later this-"

And with this half-finished sentence, Xena in the bird pajamas has stormed off and my last stitch is done. When I put down the needle holder, my hands are shaking almost violently. Like all the pain that I tried to ignore has been trapped in the skin. If I fell asleep right now I think I wouldn't wake up until spring. See a lone drop of blood making its way to Laura's floor and once again I use my hand to wipe it. It will probably take a week of vigorous hand washing before I stop having blood under my nails. It's the smell of the blood that gets me the most and memories flash in my mind as powerful and quick as thunder.

Her eyebrows are almost reaching her hairline, "Wow… Carmilla those are really nicely done. Like really, plastic surgery type good. Where in heck did you learn how to do that?"

"My mother was a doctor."

Her tone is soft, "Was?"

I correct myself, "Is. She is a doctor."

I sit up and lean against her wall, now eye level with her. She gathers her equipment again and gets an antimicrobial cream. The silence is comfortable as she cleans the wound once again. The pain from before has overwhelmed my nerves so extensively, that now in the absence of that acute pain, my body seems to hum in a dull fashion.

"You are made from a tough material." She finally says.

I shrug, "As are you."

She just looks at me, with those soft and kind eyes. It's so hard to remain expressionless and cold when a stranger looks at you seemingly filled with only good intentions. I regret thinking of her as naive and provincial. A certain rare kind of courage is needed to be so open and kind. This is one of the things I've learned since living in Silas – it is easy to yell and be intimidating. It might be harder to do something good just because you can, even if it puts you in a vulnerable position. I'd be lying if I said that hope started to build up in me then. Because I know started to build up the moment she offered me coffee. It's easy to take that hope as a good thing when you are living typically. Hope is something we try to avoid at all costs. It will settle in your mind passively; that you'll get a job, that you will sleep in a bed, that you won't have to think twice about what you're going to eat, that a soft girl will fall in love with you, that you'll feel like you have value. But the daydreams are insidious and cruel because you fall asleep and wake up that next morning with the sudden realization that you have nothing. Each day you start with nothing. Let alone the sentimental side, you literally start each day with close to nothing – no extra money, no complete certainty of shelter, no food. No way to plan ahead. Hope doesn't make you feel better, it makes you feel worse about what you need to do. I won't pretend that I haven't waited on my small yoga mat, for good things to happen because I couldn't find the strength to get up. On those days you starve and it makes the next one even harder.

She claps her hands, and I almost feel bad for her angry roommate, "That whole blank face thing you have going on is my cue feed you now."

She gets up and turns towards the pantry so quickly it almost looks like she's dancing and her dress is having a hard time to keep up with her. At the sudden offer of food, I can feel my abdomen digging inwards, skin tugging at my ribs. My stomach cries a pitiful whine.

I take my tools and get up, I put them back into my bag, "No it's okay. I should get back home now. You've done more than enough."

I can almost feel my every cell collectively punching me.

Her laugh is high and sarcastic, "Very funny. I can cope with you turning my kitchen into an operating room. I can even deal with the fact that you sing The Mountain Goats even if you're not going through a breakup and a tub of cookie dough ice cream. But no way in actual hell that I'm letting you leave like this. Without eating and drinking and answering my questions."

I sit back down on the chair, almost nonchalant, "I figured you weren't doing all of this from the goodness of your little bleeding nursing heart."

She turns around and points a finger at me, "I am doing this purely for … myself actually. I suffer from insomnia and there is nothing that helps me sleep better than a huge rush before bedtime. Sugary or salty?"

"Both. So I see how it is, creampuff. You are shamelessly using me."

She turns from the refrigerator to look at me, "You were shamelessly following me. Why?"

"You don't even pretend to waste time."

"Not a big fan of time-wasting or not getting answers to my questions. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" She bites her lip, but I can see the corners of her lips turn slightly upwards.

"That would be perfect. I didn't follow you… I just live near here."

She puts two slices of white bread in the toaster, my mouth can't help but water, "You should probably take theater classes because your acting sucks. I can't even give you a passable grade."

"Why would you even bring me here if you even remotely thought I was stalking you? Me, allegedly lying, only makes you look bad, cutie." I hold my head up with my fist as I watch her move around the kitchen.

She holds up two fingers in my direction, "There are two things I am exceptionally good at; the first one is eating twice my weight in sugary treats without feeling anything but in tip top health, the second one is my killer good instincts."

I turn my head slightly to the side, hoping she will elaborate further.

"I'm really good at telling if someone is genuine, or kind or hypocritical. I kind of have to be to be good at what I do. And," she pulls the toasts out and starts making the sandwich, "I know at an about ninety-eight percent certainty that you don't want to make a leather coat with my skin."

I make a face, "As if I'd ever wear something pastel colored."

"Gosh, that's just mean. It's very hard to get even a slight tan in winter." She looks me up and down, I try to pretend I don't feel my nerves being ignited back to life with an electrical current. "As if you're any better than me. If anything you are much worse. On which street you do live?"

I realize I can't manipulate her into another subject, "I live on Silas."

"Really? I didn't know they had apartments on Silas. Last time I went –"

I start picking at my nails, "It's a fairly new block."

"Do you like orange juice? And definitely not anywhere near here. So, why were you following me?" She puts the plate in front of me before turning to get something to drink.

"Orange juice is fine."

She gives me a glass of juice and sits in front of me, her arms crossed. She makes a hand gesture as if to say continue.

"I didn't want you to walk back home alone."

Her nose crinkles as she makes a face, "What? How could you even know that?"

I mock her earlier gesture by putting up my middle finger. It probably doesn't look threatening because of the grin that's breaking through, "There is one thing I'm really good at. And it's listening. I heard you when I was with Lafontaine, arguing with the magnificent specimen that is your roommate."

"Oh." She plays with the hem of her dress, "I don't know if it's really considerate or creepy."

I shrug, "Probably the second option."

She shakes her head, "Girl the hell up Carmilla and assume what you did. To be honest, I probably would have done the same thing."

"Really?"

She puts her tiny fist up, "Heck yes. I'm all about girls protecting girls."

I try to not hope that she is all about girls loving girls as well. It doesn't mean anything. This night will end and it will not matter if this short, surprising girl is into girls or not. Once I start eating, the whole scene blacks out. My only thoughts are on the movements needed to eat. It is only when an empty plate and glass are staring back at me that I feel that familiar pain in my stomach. That cramping pain that happens when I eat too fast or too much at once.

Her mouth is slightly opened in awe, "And here I was, thinking I was the crowned champion in the eating fast category."

I take the plate and glass and get up awkwardly, not knowing where to put it but not wanting to leave it just on the table, "Thank you for the meal. It was lovely." I decide to put it in the sink.

She laughs, "It was toast."

"You truly have extraordinary culinary skills."

"Thank you so much. You should see my take on chicken noodle soup."

I bring a fist to my heart dramatically, and say sarcastically, "I think I'd like that, very much." I pick up my pants, "This is officially the end of this PG-13 rated show."

Once my pants are on, the silence for the first time feels awkward.

"So…" I start.

"You should sleep over." She blurts out.

I frown, confused, "What?"

"Just to piss Danny off. Do it for me. You technically owe me, by the way."

She can't be serious, "Are you even serious?"

She just shrugs, "It would be worth it. Just to see her angry morning face."

"You – we don't even know each other."

"I've literally seen the inside of your body. I'd say we're pretty close."

With her smile so big and innocent. It is hard to say no. But I know I have to. It's hard to explain why exactly, I have to refuse an open door. I don't know if it's out of fear or need of transparency for survival that I feel I need to do so. I don't know if she is truly asking me to sleep over to get revenge on her roommate or because she is lonely.

I shake my head, "I need to go home."

She seems to have a moment of sudden understanding. I feel my hands getting clammy.

"Oh… are you dating someone or?"

I almost let out a breath in relief, "No I'm not dating anyone." It's so hard to find something normal to say, "I have a cat though. And a few roommates."

Her face lights up, "Really? I could have never imagined you as a cat person."

"I have no idea why people keep saying that. Do I look like I injured animals for fun as a youth?"

She shrugs, "I don't know what it is exactly. Maybe it's the hair?"

I pat down my messy curls almost self-consciously. She laughs.

"Well, then, Carmilla, since you won't help me out and you still have a debt to pay, come back here Friday night. It's my day off. I'll change your dressing, make sure you're healing well and be able to sleep soundly without war flashbacks of this incident."

I think about my Friday night routine. I usually go dumpster diving when the sun sets, and then go to my spot to play guitar and try to get some change. There is considerably less food to find on the weekends. If I don't get the change I might not be able to wash my clothes, let alone have some spare change in case I need food. I'm trying to save up for a gym membership. This is what Perry does – it allows her to shower at a very cheap rate. On the weekends, I have an infinity of spare time. I think about the small cat. I know I can't leave it at Silas. She only stayed because Perry and Laf were there tonight.

I try to think of a plausible reason why I can't make it, "I have to take my cat to the vet."

She claps her hands excitedly, "Great! You can bring her here after. So I'll get to make sure you won't go into septic shock and meet a cat. This is great."

I put on my leather coat and run a hand through my hair. This is something. But with this twisting in my gut, I'm not sure if it is something dangerous or great.


	7. Chapter 7

With every step, the skin tugs violently in protest. The dressing on the wound is of considerable help. But the feeling persists until I can see Silas. I feel as though one wrong step could cause the skin on my leg to split, like an old piece of rubber under too much tension. Each step is a reminder that this wound is far from healed. I hope that by tomorrow the dried blood will at least glue the wound edges together. The type of silence the pain causes in the mind feels almost as painful as the wound itself.

I am trembling by the time I lay on my mat. I cannot figure out if it is the cold or the pain that causes it. The extent of concentration on my movements blocks out any other information. I am now longing for not only the warmth of the tiny hobbit's apartment but for the bottle of ibuprofen she held in her hand. I guess she was right on that call.

"You're –" I hear Perry gasp slightly, "Oh my, what happened? Your face is a deadly shade of pale and you have blood on your –"

I try to roll my eyes in annoyance, but I cannot tell if it seems sincere or not, "I got hit by a bike."

She gets up quickly and comes to sit next to me. LaF is moving slightly, woken up by Perry's typical piercing worried voice. I take off my pants and feel immediate relief once the cool air finds my heated skin. The pain is slowly fading to a more tolerable frequency.

"Oh, Carmilla…" She says, sadly. She knows what a serious wound means. She knows what it will mean for the next couple of days. Thankfully, she doesn't question the beautifully made dressing on the wound, assuming probably that I have made it myself. As I often have in the past. I am happy she doesn't because I know I need to stop thinking about the nurse. I know that as soon as I vocalize what happened it will make it real. And not simply, just another daydream.

LaF gets up and brings me a piece of cake, which they appear to have kept for me. The simple, traditional type of icing seems out of place in their hands. Almost comically so.

They give me the small chipped plate with a smile tugging on the corners of their mouth, "Stop trying to out sick me to impress my girl."

Perry glares at them, "She is hurt – be kind to Carmilla." It's probably a full moon – I've never been this (strangely) defended by girls who look less threatening than me.

They lean down to put a hand on my shoulder, an exaggerated pout on their lips, "I am sorry, honey bear. Do you want a group hug?"

I kick their leg with my good one and snort. Cuddly and cute are definitely not words that describe the alliance LaF and I have. They smile regardless of my actions. Things are back to normal.

People really love acoustic versions of pop songs. At least, that's what I gather from the change in my pocket. Either that or they like the clash between the song and my look. Not for the first time, I am infinitely thankful for the semi-rebellious phase I had when I was a teenager and decided I wanted to play guitar. I wonder what Perry and LaF do to get money. After all that has happened, I know that you can't survive on dumpster diving and bags near donation bins. Not very long, anyways. It's not something we talk about, money that is. I think it's better not to know what the others are carrying and where. There are still some days where you feel an uncontrollable desperation. Like you are up to your neck in cold waters, a breath away from death, willing to do anything to get out.

My backpack is heavy from what I got from my "shopping". I managed to find a few warm sweaters and socks. From the charity store that is in the basement of a church near Silas, I bought a bag of cat food at a very affordable price. I can only hope Mircalla will accept it and not beg for her typical diet of canned fish and veggie meat. A few days have passed since the accident. It is hard to decide whether I should see the nurse on Friday or not. I left her apartment knowing I wouldn't. But some thoughts have been creeping up on me. Insignificant, innocent and silly thoughts. Like what I would wear if I did go Friday; all ridiculous animal print LaFontaine or 80s punk to bother her roommate, the last Viking on earth. If I should bring coffee or cookies. I don't usually spend money on such useless things. So, once the thoughts cut through my mind I am left with an odd feeling. It makes me want to ignore my rational decision. This hasn't happened in so long.

By the time I'm walking on Silas' street, I know I will go to the tiny nurse's apartment. Only because I don't know when I'll get an opportunity to truly warm up. This is a rare offer. It might be better to be comfortable for a few hours, even if it makes it harder afterward to make my way back to Silas concrete floors, which are probably made out of liquid nitrogen. The guitar case hits my side with every step. The added weight on my back seems to directly translate into an aching pain on my thigh. I can see Silas, when from the corner of my eye, I notice a crimson scarf. I shake my head and open my eyes wider, trying to outsmart the trick the cold or fatigue has obviously played on me. My photographic memory once again does not fail me. The golden-haired girl with the scarf is her without a doubt. Panic fills me until I can feel it's flush in my cheeks and ears, my heart attempting to hammer itself out. I see her looking at buildings, searching. I wonder if she is searching for me. All logic says that this young Lois Lane is searching for that "new apartment block". There is nothing of value for a typical girl on this street.

I make my way into Silas without her noticing. I try to make my way down the stairs, but my lungs stand useless in my chest. Paralyzed, and I cannot help but to sit down on one of the steps, unable to move further. To try to remember that my lungs will continue to take air in regardless of what happens. My vision narrows down until all I can see is the end of a dark tunnel. My palms are sweaty, and wiping them on my pants doesn't seem to help. This feeling of impending doom is currently present in every single corner of my being. I don't understand, the vision of my mother's face coming back to me. A connection is made between the tiny nurse knowing where I am currently living and my mother finding me.

But the link doesn't make sense. And yet I can almost hear my mother say, _"You do not have what it takes to make it in a world that gives you nothing, Carmilla. Tired? You are tired? You do not even understand the basic concepts of fatigue. You have the arrogance to speak about terms you do not comprehend? I am going to explain to you, in the simplest terms I can manage, what is going to happen next. You are –"_

A hand on my back, light and uncertain, "Carmilla? Are you alright?"

The concern written on LaF's face is bold and obvious as if written with a thick permanent marker. The bright intensity of their blue eyes helps me anchor myself back the present moment.

"My leg hurts," my voice sounds foreign and cold to my own ears. Not a lie, but maybe not the truth either. I know my breathing is still irregular. I try to pace it, counting slowly and with purpose in my mind.

They sit next to me, "What happened?"

I've always been able to hold myself together better with someone else watching. After their question, I can feel the deep sense of panic being lifted. I shake my head and look away, embarrassed.

"It doesn't matter now."

I feel their added weight on the step, "That's subjective. Did you…" they clear their throat, "See an old friend?"

I understand their meaning, someone I knew in my other life, "No."

"You know, you don't have to keep the whole broody and mysterious act in front of me, this - " they point a finger in my direction before pointing it back to their chest, "never going to happen."

"Thank god."

Maybe LaF and I are friends. A strange type of friendship, bound by extraordinary circumstances and survival.

"The day I got hit by a bike, I was following your nurse."

"Who?"

"The one that wore the stupid floral uniforms."

Their mouth opens, "Laura? What? Why?"

I explain the whole story to them. From following her to her fixing me up in her apartment to her eighteen feet tall roommate. It seems more effective in calming me than counting my respiration did. In a matter of minutes, the walls of the basement have felt the echo of my voice more than in the past weeks, combined.

"Why in hell wouldn't you go to see her Friday?" The look they are giving me is making me feel even more embarrassed, if that is even possible.

I sigh, "What good would it do? I can clean my own cut. You know I can and I have before, a great multitude of times."

They rest their chin the palm of their hand, "You know, I don't understand you. Don't look at me like that – I hear what you're saying. Most of the time I can even hear what you are probably thinking. But I never can understand the decisions you end up making. Every day, I see you biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Like when Mircalla does something stupid or cute. When Perry fixes up your clothes using her old patterned clothes and it ends up looking like she's trying to pull a Frankenstein. But you know, no amount of blood in your stomach from the bites in your cheeks can change this situation -"

I open my mouth to cut them off, "No Carmilla. It's true. It's not by suffering and making things more difficult than they already are, that things will get better. It's not by being unhappy that you'll make money or get a car to sleep in or whatever. It's always been about luck or coincidences or any concept that's been out of our hands from the moment we were born."

From the pressure I feel in my chest, I know that what they are saying is true. Or at the very least, sincere, "I don't understand how this has to do with going to the nurse's house on Friday."

They roll their eyes, "If you would stop lying to yourself, we'd all be better off. You're scared that you'll go there and that, yes, she'd take care of your leg, but that it might be even a tiny bit fun."

"Yes, because the debridement of dead tissues is one of my favorite recreational activities." They give me this look that almost makes me want to take a break from the sarcasm.

"Without Perry, I wouldn't have made it this far," they state simply. "I only noticed her in the library because she used to start crying at random times. A silent kind crying, never lasting more than a minute before she would mumble to herself and shake herself out of it. Here I was, a little less than two years after I left everything behind, only starting to get my basic needs met. She was the first person that I didn't have the heart to try to hate. So, I sat with her. Every day for weeks. I memorized her schedule. I was waiting for her to tell me to fuck off or whatever. But she never did. She complimented me on my posture. That was it. That was enough to start something. When I found out she lost her home, I showed her everything I wish someone else had done for me. And everything was better. Sometimes it wasn't great, sometimes it was horrible, sometimes I couldn't close my eyes long enough to sleep. But it was better."

I rub the back of my neck, "I cannot imagine this situation getting better."

They nod sympathetically, "Take what people offer, Carmilla."

The silence fills the room then. My hands are playing with the holes at the bottom of my sweater, "I don't want her to know. I'm so …" The image of my mother's clenched jaw comes back to me, and I clear my throat. Not wanting to let the words out.

"You're not the same person you were when we met. It has gotten better. I can still remember that night as if it's playing on a screen in front of me. We came in and I saw you, lying there on the floor, and I thought you wouldn't make it another week, never mind another month. Seriously if Laura thinks you look like a vampire now … well, back then you truly fitted the characteristics associated to the undead. But then you saw us, and your eyes were drawn to our wounds instantly. It was when you had the needle in your hands and that intense look you get that I realized you were more than just a scrawny street kid –"

I give them a push, "You looked as good as I did, Crocs face."

"Shut up fangs. But it's true – you get this intense look on your face. And you can see that you used to be someone. That you are someone. I can easily tell, when I meet another one of us, if they became homeless before learning they had a purpose. You can just see it in their eyes. They have nothing to lose, this emptiness. On the other hand, those with a purpose, you can tell that they've lost everything."

I shrug, trying not to think about LaF's assumptions, "In the end it matters not. Either way we survive or we don't."

They just look at me, and I cannot tell if they agree or not.

"I don't think I can cope with disappointment," I say this, mostly for myself.

They shrug, "Sometimes you don't have to."

I turn to look at them, serious and threatening, "Don't tell any of this to Perry."

I make my way into Silas. I am aiming for a nap before going to my usual activities on my typical Friday evening and night. When I make my way down the stairs, Perry is standing motionless in the middle of the room. With the hugest smile. Almost akin to that of a serial killer zeroing on a kill. I almost fear that she is going to say that she wants to eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. She even has a plate of baked goods. Not a good sign. Perry being this ecstatic usually means she has a plan. She is kind of giving me the same look she gave Mircalla before putting on the ridiculous sweater. I silently curse the small cat, making its way to Perry, the sweater still on its back. Initially, I assume I kept it on the cat to please Perry. But now this silly creature whines at me to put it on. Silly, shameless creature.

She quickly makes her way up to me and starts dusting off snow from my shoulders, "Oh, hello! I've been waiting for you Carmilla. Here, take some muffins. I thought maybe –"

I turn around and make my way to the small box where we keep our food, and unpack my findings, "No. Could you remind your big mouthed human that I will surgically close their mouth shut if they don't learn to do so on their own."

She looks around the room, guilty, "LaFontaine only briefly mentioned –"

I look at her, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

She speaks so quickly the words almost melt into one, "That you, perhaps, have a date tonight. With a nurse," she fixes her hair nervously, "in their sleep. They mentioned it in their sleep."

"Of course Meryl Streep, in their sleep."

She nods rapidly, guilt still painted on her features. I take off my coat and put on my makeshift hook to dry. I put my guitar case next to my mat, in its usual place, right next to a pile of books. Some old, some new, and most of them borrowed. I'm about to pick up the one I'm currently reading when Perry grabs me by the arm. She pulls me towards the tall wardrobe where they both keep their belongings.

She opens the doors, and turns to me, hands forming fists that she brings to her chest, "You don't know how long I've waited for this moment. It is like a dream come true."

Everything about my facial expression and posture is screaming "what the fuck".

She examines a few pieces of clothing, concentrated, before putting a couple of them on the bed. She then brings her hands together, "So you have the choice, you can go for the clean and responsible look or –"

"Fucking hell Perry, leave me alone. It is not a date. If it is anything, it is a medical appointment." I can see that she's hurt by my swearing and tone. She slowly picks up the clothing she put down moments earlier, clean and formal looking button ups.

Her back is facing me, "I was only trying to help."

A tiny sliver of regret finds me, "I'm sorry Perry. I ..." I almost have to cough to get the words out, "need your help."

She smiles so big, I am reminded of how hard it must be for LaF to ever say no to her. I guess I have a hard time saying no as well. Occasionally.

"Okay so try this on it might be a little loose but –"

A few outfits later, I think even Mircalla doesn't recognize me. I let Perry chose a white button up shirt and a pink bowtie that undeniably belongs to LaF. My curls are neater than they have been in years. I look young, useless and very gay. Mostly normal, I assume.

She makes me stand in front of the broken mirror, "I look like I sell bibles."

She looks at me, perplexed, "No Carmilla, you look lovely. Medical appointment or not she is -"

Bonnie walks in at this moment and looks at me with her mouth opened, "What the nuts! Pink!"

I look at Perry, "Case in point."

Perry just waves dismissively at Bonnie. Bonnie's bubble gum swells and its pop echoes defiantly in the room. Perry jumps at the sound and looks at her filled with dislike. I don't mind her. She is rarely present and is fairly clean. Better than one of the guys that used to crash with us – with dreads so disgusting and unkempt that they melted into one. I wonder where he is now. Maybe his repulsive hair got permanently attached to a park bench.

I take a muffin from Perry's plate and bite into it. I almost moan on the spot. I throw her a devil's horns sign to show my appreciation.

"Where did you get these?" She often comes to Silas with baked goods. Freshly, homemade baked goods. Which let me tell you, after years of stale store ones, is almost a holy experience.

"It's from a lady I work for. She has no children and likes baking. When I finish early, sometimes we bake together."

I get back to my mat with another muffin and crack open my book. I can feel that Perry I still looking at me.

"What is it now?"

She smiles, "What are you reading?"

"Fifty Shades of Grey."

She looks at the cover of the big textbook, "Oh shush. I know what your outfit is missing! Suspenders. I'm sure LaFontaine has some somewhere –"

The look I give her stops the words instantly.

"It would really add to –"

I close the book shut in an exaggerated fashion. I move my hands to my neck to try to take off this ludicrous bow.

My hands stop moving, "Well, Don't you look handsome." In response to LaFontaines sudden arrival and mockery, I hold my middle finger up to them.

I get up, "Don't you guys have lives? There is an overwhelming amount of abnormal hair color in this room. I'm leaving before I overdose and start convulsing."

I have my coat on, my backpack and Mircalla on my shoulder when I make my way up the stairs.

"Say hello to your one true love from me!"

Fuck you LaF.

I have two options. Either I press the button for apartment 307 or I throw myself onto oncoming traffic. Both sound as equally pleasing right now. I decide to press the damned button, because well, hell, it's Antarctica out there. So. That's that.

It is her roommate's rough voice that I hear through the intercom, "Who is this?"

I feign a sickly sweet, entirely sarcastic voice, "Hello sweetie, it's Ms. Trauma Case I've come to see –"

I can hear the anger bubbling out of her voice, "Laura isn't here."

"Aren't you nurses under an oath that forbids lying?"

"Well you punk kids must know all about that considering you probably under one that requires you to be total b-"

The sounds cuts, there's a buzzing at the door and then, "Hey, sorry about that, the doors is open."

Before I can calm my uncharacteristically shaking hands, I have reached the third floor. I try to blame it on the cold. But I have a feeling that is not it. The heat is coming back to my cheeks by the time I reach her door. Mircalla is following me silently and closely, as if completely uncertain of this new setting. I reach down to dust the snow off her sweater as if thanking her for her support. Her uncertainty mirrors mine. I am about to knock a second time on her door when it flings open. She is wearing a loose striped t-shirt and the fabric looks as soft and warm as her skin. It is the first time I've seen her hair down, and it falls on her shoulders in delicate waves. I suddenly understand Xena's defensiveness when it comes to the small nurse.

Her smile is wide and so honest it makes me gut twist up angrily, "Hey Carmilla. You came!"

I see her eyes drift to the bow tie and I almost run away. I forgot to take it off.

"I couldn't let you have bloody nightmares about me now could I?"

She blushes slightly.

I shoot her a questioning glance, "Unless it is already too late?"

She shakes her head, "Come in – let's get you warmed up. It feels like we're living north of the Wall."

I try not to groan at her obvious dorkiness.

She gasps, "Who is that?" Her voice switches to an annoying baby and small animal one, "What a cute little sweater!"

I move out of the way and kneel down to Mircalla, petting her head softly. Trying to get her to behave or at least not scratch the light freckles off the short girl's skin.

"Her name is Mircalla."

As if on cue, she smells the hand of the tiny nerd and rubs herself against her legs. I glare at her.

"What a little cutie! Here – Come in." She picks her up as if she had been hers all along. As if this feral wild creature was but a mere toy. Mircalla you weak animal.

I follow her inside, hands playing with the shoulder straps of my backpack. Like a nervous child.

"Okay so you can sit on the sofa and I'll get us something to snack on and –"

She must do it on purpose. At this moment, the Amazon walks in, in dark blue scrubs and a perfect glare aimed right at me, "You. So great for you to –" she notices the tiny cat in the small one's arms, "what the hell?"

She throws her a smile before saying cheerfully, "Isn't she so cute! She's called Mircalla, it's Carmilla's cat."

With the look she throws me, it is almost like she is accusing me of getting a cat in order to charm the tiny dork. I add her to the list of people who don't believe I am the type to like small animals.

With a cocky grin, "What can I say? I have a soft spot for small and cute creatures."

Xena is practically fuming. I wish I could know what's up with her. I wonder if the nurse knows how much this giant is into her. Or if she is simply ignoring it.

"You know what? Whatever. Have a nice night Laura. Be safe. I'm only doing a half shift, so I'll be back in four hours." With this clear warning aimed at me, she leaves and the room feels considerably bigger.

Once the door is forcefully closed shut, she drops down on the couch. She quickly forms a smile to wash away her frown. How quickly her face changes scares me deep in my bones. People who have that skill, have often been in unfortunate circumstances in which they had to learn it. I don't know why it makes me so much more interested in her.

She sighs, "I'm sorry about Danny. She is… a dog person."

I shrug nonchalantly. Mircalla gets off of her lap and goes exploring the hallway.

"You want me to take off my pants, creampuff?"

She looks terrified.

I point to my leg, "You know, to see my wound?"

She laughs awkwardly, "Oh right. Yes… your wound."

I try not to smile at her and to keep my face blank. I carefully take off the leather pants.

For a second, I see her look at my underwear. A tiny smirk appears on her lips, "Well, look at you all grown up."

I roll my eyes. I obviously prepared for this and the boxers I have on now are just plain black.

"Hilarious how you try to pretend that seeing my boats wasn't the highlight of your month."

"It comes to a close second to this one lady with an intestinal obstruction that vomited Cheetos on my shoes."

"Charming."

"A bit like you."

The nerve. "You deserved the orange vomit."

She brushes nonexistent dirt from her shoulders and gets up, "Actually no! I am a model citizen filled with good intention and morals."

She comes back with her first aid kit and starts taking off the old wound dressing, "This is looking good! It doesn't look infected, the edges came together pretty neatly except for this part… you pulled a stitch. You might get a bigger scar on this part."

I make a non-committal grunt and go back to playing with my nails.

I can almost hear her working up to say, "So…"

I look at her with a raised eyebrow, daring her to talk about what I fear she eventually will.

"I'm guessing the Vet must be really cute if she has you dressing up…"

I snort, "Kind of rude of you to assume I'm into women just because –"

She huffs annoyed, "Stop playing with me Carmilla. Last time I saw you, you literally had a heart shaped patch on your pants with the word Girls written in the middle."

"Fair point." I try to imagine the imaginary Vet that Mircalla definitely did not see, "she's okay, I presume."

Her hair is hiding her face while she works. I can't help but to look at her, the movement of her hair as her hands move from her equipment to my leg, the gentle pressure on my thigh.

"I'm sorry for kind of outing you. I understand the need to keep it hidden sometimes, you know. Not even out of shame. More like a precaution? For me anyways. The nursing world is a harsh one already so I don't usually give the people a work with a chance to gossip about me or whatever. There's nothing nurses love more than gossip. Sometimes I feel like Danny and I are the only lesbians in the whole hospital. I don't purposefully hide it nor engage in the hetero-normative talks… I just don't talk about it I guess. "

I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. This information changes everything and nothing at the same time.

The only thing that I can get out is, "My friend Perry made me that patch." And I want to hit myself in the face.

But it doesn't look like it matters to the small nurse, "That's nice! She's really good. After an early education of barely passed art projects, I can safely say that the arts and crafts aren't for little old me."

I clear my throat, "Maybe I'll ask her to make you one with surgical wounds and crazy roommates written in the middle."

She gives me a small push, "Danny is just… Protective. She's actually a really nice girl."

"Of course," I say disbelievingly, not trusting myself to say any more than that in fear of crossing boundaries.

She gets up quickly, "All done."

I bite my lip and look around nervously. Wondering if I'll go through with it or if she will say something.

"You're lucky it healed so well Carmilla. You should definitely be more careful when you stalk defenseless girls past midnight."

"What can I say, I have a soft spot for defending short annoying girls from creepy old men."

She has a small smile on and her hands in fists at her sides. She just looks as resilient as she looks harmless, "Do you want to –"

It's out of my mouth before I can take it back, "You want to get a coffee with me?"


	8. Chapter 8

"No."

I choke on my own breath, "What?"

The blood in my veins stills for a moment. All this build up and stress and uncertainty to boil down to a refusal? Uncharacteristically, I had forgotten its possibility. Regardless of what she has said before, she is probably just doing a kind act. A moral duty. Obviously this normal, kind and –

She throws a pillow at me, "You must really like coffee," she gestures at my face, "With the funeral face you have going on there."

I tug on the bow tie absentmindedly, "I don't think I can't make it through another conversation with you without caffeine in my system."

She scoffs, "As if you have been anything but highly entertained with me."

"More the other way around, cutie. I seem to recall that I was the one going into a hypovolemic shock a week ago-"

A laugh breaks through her almost serious face, "Oh just shush. I was only kidding, you big baby. Let's get some coffee and hopefully some sugary pastries."

A big baby. That is a first. I try to, nonverbally, express my disgust and total confusion. I try hard to keep my lips pressed together. In my bag, I find my favorite knitted jumper. Thick and warm. Especially needed once the sun sets and the cold amplifies. I'm slipping on my leather jacket when I see her putting on her coat.

"You're not going out like that."

"Like what?"

"Practically naked. Don't you have any sweaters? Or do you only own scrubs and one outfit?" How can she even consider going out without at least a few layers under her coat? Should I inform her that it is winter?

She walks towards the hall. When she comes back her arms are filled with sweaters and jumpers and all kinds of hideous colors and patterns that almost make me have an epileptic fit. "Enough for you, mommy?"

What a ridiculous creampuff. I take one look at her before rolling my eyes and walking towards the door, "Is Mircalla in your room?"

"Yep, she's sleeping on my bed."

She should be good until we come back. The sweater the short nurse puts on is a pale shade of pink with, what I assume is, a farm animal. I try to restrain all the comments. The sweater most definitely doesn't bring out the color in her cheeks.

"Better?"

"It will have to do."

She gives me a small push on my back, "Come on, and let's get out of here before you," she makes a weird face before doing an exaggerated, and totally inaccurate, imitation of my voice, "fall asleep out of utter boredom."

She brings me to a small, open 24 hours coffee shop, only a few minutes from her apartment. On our way there, she talks about things that happened on her unit this week. She tells me about a man who stole alcohol swabs to eat them, thinking it would get him high. She tells me about a woman with Alzheimer's who gets up at night and how they give her towels to fold until she falls asleep again. By the time she tells me about an elderly man who chased her down the hall with his walker, accusing her of stealing his dessert, I can't help but laugh. It is silent and restrained, but the sound makes it past my lips. I then remember what LaF said, and smile at the nurse. I don't have the time to regret it because she smiles back.

By the time were at the counter, getting ready to order, I feel the change in my pocket becoming heavier. I know I have enough for two coffees, but I'm not sure if she chooses to buy something to go with it. I can remember exactly how every piece of money in my pocket has been gained. The type of stress this situation brings is all too familiar.

I turn to the small nurse, "What do you want?"

Her eyebrows come together, "No Carmilla, you are not paying if anything –"

I repeat her words, "If anything I owe you," I slip my hands into my pockets, "I was the one who stalked you and turned your kitchen into a treatment room."

She crosses her arms, "I'm not letting you pay. If you do, I'm going to leave and you're going to be stuck with two coffees and be humiliated in front of all of these respectable people."

The place is empty omitting the one girl behind the counter, "Cupcake –"

She ignores me and steps up to the counter, "I'll have a hot chocolate and a large coffee with," she looks at me.

"Nothing. I take my coffee black."

"How predictable."

"More like lactose intolerant."

"I'm pretty sure a little sugar in you wouldn't hurt."

The waitress just looks at us, seeming more sleep deprived than I do on my bad days. The nurse hands her a twenty dollar bill. Once she has the change in her hand, we make our way to a table, "A little less in you wouldn't hurt."

Of course, she just smiles at me like what I said was actually a compliment. I can hardly understand. I can safely say that I haven't been the warmest and I mock her far too often. But she doesn't seem to mind. Maybe it's a nursing thing? Who knows. The warm drink feels so good in my hands, probably as good as it tastes.

She blows on her steaming drink, "I actually don't drink coffee, it gives me the jitters."

I take one look at her fidgeting hands, "And sugar obviously doesn't."

She ignores my comment, "So, how is LaFontaine?"

"They are doing good. Happy to be back home."

"Do you live with them?"

I nod, "And a few roommates. And Mircalla."

She looks at her drink for a few minutes with a look on her face I can't describe or understand. She shakes her head, "I don't know how you do it. I only have Danny and sometimes it drives me insane. Like the little things. Like whenever I buy anything delicious, she always gives me a speech about polysyllabic chemicals and early onset type two diabetes. If I actually listened to her all we'd have in the kitchen would be apples and kale." She visibly shudders.

I'm happy she doesn't question further because I am sure I would get caught up quickly in this web of half-truths. I'm starting to think that maybe I did imagine her, that day I saw her on the street to Silas. That maybe, she truly, doesn't know. The hope of keeping my living situation hidden feels warm under my skin. I feel like I have, for the first time in so long, a chance at a semblance of equality with someone off the streets. A chance at not being a punch line or a story quickly told at a dinner party. To not be something that is pitied or one dimensional.

I can't hold back my interest, "How did you meet the green giant?"

"Actually we grew up together. We have been best friends since she moved in the house next to mine when I was, what, seven? She is older than me, so we only went to school a few years together. Danny spent like ninety percent of her childhood at my house so, we're really close. And my dad loves her because they are basically the same. She's like a sister, basically."

I chuckle, "I'm sure she would be glad to hear that."

She tilts her head to the side, "What? Why do you say that? Are you saying that I am –"

"What I'm saying, cutie, is that Xena has a massive, undeniable crush on you."

She starts laughing.

I frown, "Frankly, it's obvious."

"If you want me to be completely honest with you Carmilla, this boat has sailed and sunk and left Rose and Jack fighting for a floating door."

"Are you sure of that?"

She nods, "Mm, we almost had a thing when I finished high school. Long story short, that really, really, didn't work out too well. We both realized we worked as friends but nothing more than that."

I take a sip of my coffee, "Oh. I guess that explains her attitude."

She shakes her head, "I know she seems intense and all but she's actually a really good friend. You know, the type that sticks around no matter what. She actually, uh, was a foster kid. So she's always has been kind of extremely protective of the things she values. Sometimes that includes people."

I cannot help but imagine a younger version of the tiny nurse, getting defended by Xena. She has a tiny drop of chocolate milk on her upper lip, and I watch as her lower lip cleans it off. I feel this distant ache, because she looks so young. I cannot even pretend to be bitter that life let this girl keep something that so many others cannot.

She clears her throat, "Also, she has been kind of under a lot of stress lately which makes her, like, extra intense. There is a serious shortage of nurses that are trained to work in the surgical ward. And she has this one case that she has been obsessed about. A really weird situation, from what she's telling me. She came in to get some gallbladder stones removed. But she has been coughing a lot, and it's really been bothering her at home. Apparently this cough has been going on for months. At first they thought it was asthma, but eventually they found out it wasn't. The doctors tried to rule out pretty much everything. And since they didn't find anything, and it's not an infection, she is probably going to get discharged next week. Danny really hates it when she can't help a patient," She waves her hand dismissively, "But anyways. So… you learned all the first aid stuff from your mother?"

My hand comes up to my throat and I rub it nervously. I don't know why I feel like telling this girl something even LaF and Perry don't know. My heart clenches almost painfully as I attempt to force myself to not try to prove this nurse that I have some worth. Worth by societal values, anyways. "I actually, well…" The stuttering feels odd and unfamiliar.

She just looks at me with her warm eyes, waiting patiently. I'm surprised she is even capable of that. Her fingers are rubbing the side of her mug slowly.

A small part of me doesn't want the nurse to assume what I'm able to do, is due to mother's "help". She takes a small sip of her hot chocolate, "Are we at the part that you ask me about my past medical history, Lauranica Mars?"

She clicks her tongue in annoyance, "Could you at least try to answer my questions without being a jerk-face."

I shrug, "Can't, otherwise I'll lose my air of mystery, won't I?"

"Oh damn you and your air of mystery."

I laugh, "And damn you right back with your reporter-style social interactions."

I think she knows that I don't damn her at all, because of the small smile on my lips, "Carmilla, I think you took care of one of my patients."

"Mm?"

"Yeah, he was a man with lung cancer who had a spontaneous pneumothorax at a laundromat. You know like air between his –"

I nod, "I remember."

She laughs, "You actually improvised such a good chest tube. He said even the ER physician what impressed. He used to tell that story to anyone who came in the room. That this girl with black hair and a butterfly on the back of her neck saved him by actually stabbing him."

"People rarely die from pneumothorax, so that is inaccurate. First time I saw a bilateral pneumothorax though."

She looks at me weird but doesn't say anything.

I look at my nails, "Did he recover okay?"

She shakes her head, "Well, yes and no. Recovered from the pneumothorax but cancer was everywhere. He never went back home."

"He was young."

She bites her lower lip, "Yeah late 60s. But either way, old or not old it's never really fair."

"But you like working there regardless?"

"Mm, yeah. It's rarely nice endings, but often it's good people, you know, nice people. And sometimes some people make it or return home and it compensates for the bad stuff that happens. This one lady was seventy-two years old, survived all her rounds of chemo, and a few months later she was cancer free."

"That's good."

She nods, "Yeah. It is. She gets to cuddle and be with her grandkids a few more years. But working at the hospital, we only see the bad cases, you know. I'm sure the nurses who work at the day center see the better outcomes."

I take a sip of the coffee and my tongue welcomes its bitterness.

The nurse doesn't seem to appreciate silence, "So, where does your mom work? Does she work in a hospital?"

For a moment, I almost feel like Mother is standing right behind me. My heart rate increases. I bite the inside of my cheek, "She's in private practice, owns a clinic in Ontario."

Her eyebrows raise, "Gosh, that's a while away. Do you see her often?"

I shake my head, "No. I left a few years ago. I've been trying to limit our interactions since I was sixteen. We are infinitely better off with a few hours separating us."

She holds her head up with her hands, "I can't imagine having a mom that's a doctor. Not to be all stereotypical but, a lot of physicians aren't really the best at social interaction."

I'm surprised that's what she picks up from what I just said. I laugh sarcastically, "Well, she embodies that stereotype perfectly." I don't know what is about her. The softness in her features. The look in her eyes that make me feel like I could say anything, and it would be okay. I look away, "Saying that she is bad at social interactions is an understatement. She lacks interest in anything social or cultural. For her, for something to have value, it needs to be useful. Practical. To live up to expectations."

Her hand twitches, and it almost looks like it was going to reach mine, "That is… How did you even survive that?"

I remain expressionless, but her question is so pertinent that I wonder how much she understands. If she is understanding more than I give her credit for. I repeat the question once again in my head and I can see myself as I once was, young and unable to breathe as I sat on the cold floor of my bathroom. "It was okay. It impacted only small, trivial things. Like not dressing up for Halloween. First time I tried a costume on I was seventeen."

She laughs, "I would have raised hell if I hadn't been allowed to go out for Halloween. I dressed up as Woody from Toy Story for, like, four years in a row. And also, oh my gosh, the bags of candy! When I think about it, I think I liked Halloween better than Christmas."

I think about gory, violent things to keep myself from smiling at the image of a tiny version of her, dressed up as a cowboy. "Think I may have found my costume for next Halloween."

"Really! I can really see you all cowboyish. I think I'm going to go as Piper this year. I'm trying to convince Danny to go as Red because you know – the hair, but she doesn't seem too down with the idea."

I raise an eyebrow. She officially lost me at Piper, "As who?"

"You know, Piper. The whiny white girl who messes everything up."

I look at her, still not understanding this reference. It makes me feel like I have been living on a different planet, which maybe I have been, considering.

"Orange is the new Black?" Her eyes are wide, disbelieving.

"Oh trust me sweetcakes, orange will never be the new black."

She tilts her head to the side, "You've never seen – a queer person who has never seen Orange is the New Black? I don't believe you."

I shrug, "My roommates don't believe in television."

"It's actually on Netflix."

I shake my head. I kind of feel embarrassed. She puts down her mug and quickly puts on her coat. So quickly, I am wondering if she is going to run away just because I don't have Netflix.

She is wrapping her scarf around her neck when she looks at me, an expression on her face that can only indicate that either there's is a fire in the coffee shop or that we need to flee the premises as if pursued by the police. "Come on now, Carmilla, we need to go."

I take the last sip of my coffee, "What?"

She holds a finger up, almost poking my nose, "We need to get to my apartment ASAP. You cannot spend a second longer without having binge watched at least the first season."

I get up, taking my time to get dressed, "Whatever you say Piper."

She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it back again. Frowns.

"You will soon learn that what you just said was actually an insult."

I am walking a few feet behind her. Her short legs can move at a surprisingly fast pace. She turns around and walks up to me. She grabs the edge the sleeve and pulls me, "Hurry up! We don't have any time to waste." My laugh echoes in the empty street.

Once we have walked up the stairs at a record time, she is fumbling with the keys of her apartment, trying to pull out the right one out.

"I'm not dying – no reason for all this twitchiness."

"Oh hush." She opens the door and almost throws her coat and scarf into the wardrobe. Mircalla rubs herself on my legs and purrs. I scratch her head. The tiny nurse makes her way into the kitchen and turns to face me, "Okay so I'm going to make popcorn and get some cookies and you –"

"Are we seriously going to watch that show? Now?"

Her voice goes an octave higher, clearly, extensively excited about this, "Yes! Stop pretending to be all cool and detached. You can thank me later. Get the blankets from my bed. First room on the left."

I raise an eyebrow, but make my way to her room regardless. I see the yellow pillow from the night I stitched up my leg and decide to bring it as well. I take a minute to scan her room. The walls are dark and bare, except for a mirror hanging besides a wardrobe. There is a desk in the corner of the room, messy and covered with pages partly filled with writing, wrappers and notebooks. A laptop is partly closed and there are two picture frames. In one of them she has a purple party hat and is hugging an older male tightly. Looking happy. I can only assume he is her father. In the other one she is sitting next to a woman, both are wearing identical smiles and Christmas sweaters. I try to not smile at the picture as I let my finger trace the frame. I walk back into the living room. I put the pile of blankets on the sofa next to me, not daring to put them over me. If I do that, I might just never have the motivation to get out of them. They are so soft and warm. I don't even know how I'm going to convince myself that the blankets back at Silas are comfortable. A few minutes later she makes her way back into the living room, hands filled with treats and holding a bowl of popcorn. I cannot remember the last time I had popcorn. I'm trying not to get excited as well. I'm trying not to acknowledge the fact that this is the most normal activity I have done in the past year.

She gives me the bowl and puts the assortment of desserts on the coffee table, "I'm going to put my pajamas on, do you want me to lend you some?"

I just look at her, "You're really turning this into a prepubescent sleepover aren't you? Are we going to talk about boys later? Please tell me we'll at least bitch about how our parents don't understand us."

"Your loss! Don't whine when you get all uncomfortable in those… very tight leather pants. Which by the way – wow - but definitely not binge watching gear. And trust me, after this show you're going to want to talk about girls."

It is when she is gone that I feel a smile growing on my lips. By the time she comes back, she is wearing a gray shirt with plaid pants. She closes the lights and the only light that remains is dim and coming from the kitchen. She sits crossed legged next to me, with apparently very little knowledge about personal space. I barely have the time to process the slight pressure of her knee against the side of my thigh when she puts the blankets over us both.

Her nose is barely sticking out of the edge of the blanket she is holding up to her chin, but I can feel the smile that's on her lips, "Are you ready for this amazingness?"

I sigh dramatically, "Waiting for the disappointment."

"Well, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."

I don't say so out loud, but she is right. I find myself chuckling and agreeing to her enthusiastic statements ("Larry is the type of guy that if you come over and ask for water, he gives you a lukewarm glass of tap water" "Alex's glasses were probably the backbone of their relationship"). The light of the television illuminates the curve of her lips, and I figure she isn't minding my sarcastic commentary. It almost shocks the forced and unimpressed look my face. From the corner of my eye, I watch the dark outline of her nose and jaw. I watch the way she brings the blanket higher up as she decides to lie on her side. I feel her feet sneaking under my thigh. I ignore the look she gives me, as if asking if it's okay. I watch her turn her attention the show. After a few episodes she stops saying some the lines at the same time as the characters and is watching with heavy eyelids.

The credits of the episode are rolling on the screen. Her voice is hoarse with fatigue, "You should sleep over, Carmilla. It's really late I could lend you my bed and –"

There is a sort of irritating tug in my chest, "And get absolutely no sleep because of your deafening snores? I'd rather not."

She gives my thigh a little kick with the sole of her feet, "Stop –" Another small kick, "ruining this two girl party you jerk."

I huff, "Stop acting like a child about to throw a tantrum in the middle of a supermarket."

"Stop refusing my totally logical proposition."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

She sighs. Another episode starts.

"Well…" she starts, maybe hesitantly, "Stay for another episode?"

I give her a slight grunt in response. I presume she takes it as a yes because she lies her head down with a satisfied smirk on her face. I don't make it through the episode. I fall asleep in a warmth and comfort that I, obviously, rarely experience. I sleep dreamlessly. But my circumstances have long robbed me of the ability to sleep deeply. It is the quiet opening of a door and the sound of sock-clad feet against the floor that wakes me. My body is jerked upwards, untangling my feet from the mess of blankets and the small girl's legs in one smooth motion. The morning sun is starting to send its weak rays of light and floor reflects it back sluggishly. It is later than I planned to leave, and I need to do so quickly. Before she wakes up. I feel this sense of embarrassment swelling up in me. Like I have taken something that wasn't mine to take. Like I am in a zone that prohibits my presence. Like I am licking my own wounds, filled with self-pity, waiting for someone else to make it better.

Red takes a step backwards in surprise, but doesn't make a sound as she takes in the position of the tiny dork and our current set up. She doesn't say a word as she looks at me. I hold her gaze, maybe trying to convince her as much as I am trying to convince myself that the nurse wanted me here. Her eyes convey her clear lack of trust. She stands tall, her back straight, and regardless of the dark circles around her eyes, and sleep deprived stare, it lets me know how closely she guards the girl sleeping next to me. I see her take in my outfit, and I can almost hear her assumptions. I raise an eyebrow, unaffected. I then wonder if the tall one's guarding affects her more than she can verbalize to a stranger. If throughout the years, this tight relationship has shielded others from coming. If she has lived a life of isolation, seeing others only through a dirty window. Never knowing more than acquaintances. Never acknowledging her feelings of solitude. I am still attempting to find a reason for the small nurse's persistence.

I whisper as I slowly get out of the blankets, "I'm leaving."

She turns around and goes in her room, closing the door behind her. I fix the blanket to cover her feet. I put it a little higher to cover her neck. Before I can realize, my hand is almost touching her hair.

It comes out more like a soft exhale of air than a whisper, "You are ridiculous and headstrong and entirely too rare."

My eyebrows are brought together tightly as I make my way back to Silas, trying to understand what has happened. I can feel the rising sun on my cheek, and the snow crunches under my boots. Sadness, for this time, does not come alone. It comes with a distant sense of gratitude for the rare probability of the current events. Sadness comes with a beautiful face and an annoying voice. So, I willingly carry it back until I'm lying on my mat, in the basement of an abandoned building. My eyes are on the ceiling but seeing shades of gold and brown instead.


End file.
